


Fate is an Engineer

by Sailorhathor



Series: Brokeback Mothman [8]
Category: Miracles (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Ghosts, M/M, Mothman, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-15
Updated: 2006-03-15
Packaged: 2017-10-22 12:17:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 40,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sailorhathor/pseuds/Sailorhathor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being hypnotized and finding out he was attacked by a supernatural being, Paul Callan is balancing on the edge. A twist of fate crosses his path with Dean Winchester, who is looking for his missing brother, Sam. But as they will soon find out, that twist of fate was engineered for reasons they could never imagine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On the Edge

A **Miracles/Supernatural** Cross-over Fanfic  
by Laurel (Sailorhathor)

 **Chapters:** 1 of 5  
 **Rating:** Adult17+  
 **Word Count:** 40,864 total; 9,199 this chapter  
 **Dates:** Written February-March 2006  
 **Summary:** After being hypnotized and finding out he was attacked by a supernatural being, Paul Callan is balancing on the edge. A twist of fate crosses his path with Dean Winchester, who is looking for his missing brother, Sam. But as they will soon find out, that twist of fate was engineered for reasons they could never imagine. Dean Winchester/Paul Callan.  
 **Timeline:** This story was finished at least a month before the _Supernatural_ season one finale; the small parallels between it and the finale are a coincidence. (No spoilers, just a couple of small things.) Happens after the _Supernatural_ episode "The Benders" and before "Shadow," which moves the _Miracles_ timeline up to 2006. That means Paul has been with SQ for over three years now. (I didn't want to move _Miracles_ up so much, but it was unavoidable. I'll probably go back and fill in those years with more _Miracles_ stories later.)  
 **Warning:** Contains spoilers for all of _Miracles_ and _Supernatural_ up to "The Benders." Graphic sex between two men. Adult language.  
 **Beta Thanks:** Special thanks to KaijaWest and Meredevachon for the wonderful, thorough beta treatment they gave this story.  
 **Author's Notes:** This story continues from "You Can't Help Who You Are." Reading that story before this one would sure be helpful, but if you'd rather not, the "Previously on Miracles..." section should catch you up sufficiently.  
"Fate is an Engineer" uses an idea thought up by KaijaWest and alluded to in her story, "Working Vacation." The idea is used with permission. I'll detail exactly what idea I used at the end of the story to prevent spoilage.  
Additional thanks goes out to my friend Kaye for brainstorming on this story with me, which yielded the idea that Dean use Joe Elliott as an alias and one other thing that will be in the notes at the end of the story to prevent spoilage. She also helped me brainstorm on what sort of music Paul might like and who would be some of his favorite bands.  
This story also references a nickname that my friend Deejay started using for Alva's car, "the hooptie mobile." We ("Miracles" fanbase friends) all picked up on it. It also references an idea she is allowing me to use that I cannot detail because it's a big spoiler for my fanfic series. Just wanted to note that it is referenced heavily here.  
There are a few jokes in this story. Some will be obvious, some will not. Such as the fact that Bryan Ulrich is Skeet's real name. And there are a couple of Bon Jovi jokes. One is obvious, the other you have to hunt for. ;)

 _Previously on Laurel's version of "Miracles"..._

        A ghost appears in Paul's apartment. "I'm Audrey. Will you promise me that you'll save Kellen?" she asks.  
        Paul is horrified to see a teenage boy with lots of shaggy dark blonde hair hanging in his eyes emerge from the hall, carrying a shotgun. He aims it at Audrey.  
        "You should have gone to the prom with me, bitch," the boy tells her, and pulls the trigger.

The ghost of Diane McNeal: "So you really are Paul Callan, and you're **working** with Alva? My God, that's amazing. This happened recently?"  
Paul: "Within the last year."  
Diane: "Wow... why didn't Alva call us?"  
Paul: "I don't know... why would Keel call you to tell you that?"  
Diane: She squints at him. "Why do you call him Keel?"  
Paul: "I don't know, it's just... what I call him." He smiles awkwardly.  
Diane looks at him for a long time in silence. "You don't know, do you?"

Diane's husband, Lassiter: "Diane's psychic abilities were very projective. She could show you the things she saw by just touching you with her hands."

        Diane raises one of her hands to Paul. "You're an amazing psychic, Paul. But abilities like mine shouldn't be put to waste in the grave." She touches a finger to the space between his eyes. "I pass it on to you."

Officer Marie McCann, talking to Alva: "While you were in Mountaineer, and we were investigating this creature that the citizens of my town were seeing, this Mothman, my partner and I picked up a young man wandering the streets in a daze. It was him, Paul Callan. Mr. Callan's blood was full of barbiturates. The lab technician who did the testing said it was almost like sodium pentothal. It's a barbiturate and an anesthetic."  
Alva: "It's also thought it can be used as a mind control drug."  
Marie: "He eventually threw up and came out of his stupor."

Paul: "I can't pretend it didn't happen anymore. I really want to know."  
Alva: "Then we should find someone to hypnotize you."  
        "We can get it done today," Evie interjects. "Alva, you're forgetting, I have a shrink in the family."

Evie: "Paul, this is my sister, Dr. Julietta Santos. She's a professional psychiatrist and she hypnotizes people all the time."

Julietta: "What's your favorite color, Paul?"  
Paul: "White."

        Paul describes what happened the night he drove to Mountaineer, Vermont: "Something landed on the balcony. I think it flew in, because it has wings."

        "I'm not even sure it has a head. It's at least six feet tall, with huge wings - a ten-foot wingspan, at least. It's got these red glowing eyes in the middle of its chest. I... I have no idea what it is, but it's massive compared to me."

        "I tried to scream, and the thing rushed at me and grabbed my arms, pinning me to the wall. This tube came out of its mouth... I guess it was its mouth... and..." He swallows hard. "...it shoved the tube down my throat. I could hardly breathe... couldn't talk at all. Couldn't scream."  
        "Why did it insert the tube in your throat?" Julietta queries.  
        "It put a pod in there. Attached to my vocal cords," says Paul.  
Julietta: "Why?"  
Paul: "To take control of me and speak through me."

        Paul speaks in a deeper, slower, mechanical voice while explaining how the pod worked: "It secreted controlled doses of a drug that the Mothman produces naturally, but when introduced into the human system, acts as an anesthetic and mind-control agent."  
Julietta: "How do you know all this, Paul?"  
Paul's Forces: "Paul does not know how the pod worked."  
Julietta: "Then who does know?"  
Paul's Forces: "The forces within Paul."

Julietta: "Past life regression is a good way to see how a person views himself. Let's take a look at Paul's past lives, shall we? One life, he's a rebel fighter of the Civil War with a colorful name like Jack Bull Chiles."

        Standing before Paul's door, Alva is obviously reluctant to leave him. "You shouldn't be alone after finding out something like this. The thing attacked you."  
Paul: "Please, just leave me alone. I'll be alright!" Paul opens the door, enters quickly, and locks it behind him, not letting Alva follow. Shutting him out.

        The coffee table. What did he need with a coffee table anyway? Letting out a growling cry, Paul begins to beat it with his fists, not even realizing that he is snarling and yelling as he tries to destroy the piece of furniture.  
Paul yells at the Mothman: "What right did you have to do that to me?! I just want a normal life! I have a right to a normal life!"

        Paul examines his injured hands. One has a strange pattern of bruising on it, as he had done the punching with his mother's rosary still wrapped around it.

        Upset and crying, Paul slowly becomes aware that he is no longer lying on the floor, but now had his head resting in a woman's lap. Her delicate hands stroke his hair soothingly.

        Paul looks at her dark blonde hair, the crystal blue eyes, and listens to the unmistakable Scottish accent. **Vivian Keel.** Alva's mother.

        "You can't help who you are," she says. Her eyes take on a far-off look, and she starts petting Paul's hair a little too hard. "You can't help who you are."

  
 **Part 1: On the Edge**

        Over a cup of tea in her study, Julietta Santos poured over the books she'd checked out from the library. She pulled one out of the stack that looked helpful: _Bushwhackers and the Civil War_ by Bryan Ulrich. Paul had said while under hypnosis that in one of his past lives, he had been a Bushwhacker named Jack Bull Chiles, killed in the Civil War. Julietta flipped through the book, glancing at the old grainy photographs and reading some of the names, until one caught her eye. It was a short paragraph entitled, "Black John and His Band of Rebels." Apparently, the group had been too secretive to yield much historical information, but there were several known names. One of them was Jack Bull Chiles.

        "A-ha, Paul. So you read this book too?" Very clever, picking a real name out of a book to make it seem more authentic. It amazed her how much detail Paul had put into his fantasy life. The fantasies were so elaborate; why didn't he just put this much effort into his reality? But if everyone did that, she would be out of work as a psychiatrist, wouldn't she? "Can't have that," Julietta mumbled. "I'm on to you, Paul Callan." Would she find the other names he had mentioned in one of the other b-

        Julietta had turned the page. There, was a grainy, yellowed photo of someone named Jake Roedell... and Jack Bull Chiles.

        Save for a longer mane and a lot more facial hair, he could have been Paul's identical twin.

        Julietta fell silent, folding her hands under her chin and staring at the photograph. This currently threw a monkey wrench into her theories, at least until she could rationalize it out, or just selectively erase it from her memory. Why not, her patients did it all the time. Just eliminate the details that placed too much blame on you.

        Except, she was too smart for such behavior. This was very peculiar indeed. It didn't fit in with anything Julietta believed. She did the only thing she currently could - lashed out at Paul. "Whose favorite color is white anyway? That's not even a color."

  
*****

  
        Keel's dead mother had left a few hours ago, just popped out when Paul wasn't looking. Did all ghosts move through the world that way? He didn't know, and at this moment, didn't care. There was no angry spirit here, no cheating iceman dancing with his mistress to "You Are My Sunshine," but he still felt the same way he had that weekend with Rebecca. Wanted to slam someone down a flight of stairs, especially when he looked at his hands.

        Paul got up from where he'd draped himself across the couch. He had just been staring at the ceiling and watching the light from the window turn purple and disappear. Now, he wanted a drink. Paul looked down at his broken coffee table while he put on his coat. One corner was splintered, caved in, covered with his bloody knuckle prints. Paul took the time to examine his injured hands. The knuckles were obscured by dried blood and a network of forming bruises. Curious, he looked closer at the marks and found a pattern in it. His mother's rosary, which he'd unthinkingly left wrapped around his hand while he'd performed the fix-it job on the table. Paul laughed bitterly when he even found the outline of the crucifix on the pad under his thumb. Man, he'd been out of control.

        Picking it up carefully, Paul put the rosary over his head and wore it out. The fact that this was a sacrilegious act didn't matter to him at the time. He needed a drink.

  
*****

  
        Boston. Is that where he'd wound up tonight? Dean Winchester had been up for almost 22 hours straight, so he wasn't sure where he was anymore. Couldn't sleep. Not yet.

        Sammy was missing again. Christ, when would he find him? Dean had to find him... _alive_. He eased himself up on the barstool and ordered a beer. He needed a little time to unwind before he took up the search anew.

        Two nights ago, they'd been sleeping at the Motel Cascade in upstate New York. Dean had awakened in the morning to find himself alone. No Sam. Absolutely none of Sam's things were gone. Wherever he was, Sammy was dressed in what he'd gone to bed in - pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. No shoes. That scared Dean more than anything else he'd found. It was like Sam was just silently snatched out of his bed.

        The Impala was still in the parking lot. So what had happened to Sam?

        The first thing Dean considered was a kidnapping. A vendetta from someone on the side of evil. Lord knows they had pissed off enough evil bastards over the years with their good guy meddling. But how did they get Sam out of the hotel room without waking Dean? There's no way Sam would have gone quietly. Did they lure him outside and then take him? Even then, Sammy would have raised a four-alarm ruckus.

         _Unless he was already dead._

        Dean pushed that thought down hard. He was not dead, Sam was not dead!

        The only thing he understood with clarity was that his brother had disappeared into thin air in the middle of the night, and had not planned it.

        Panicked so hard he could barely think, Dean had waited to see if Sam would come back on his own. He'd waited a whole day. No Sam.

        That had been one of the hardest spent days he'd ever been through. There had been days full of more pain, more anguish, and definitely more danger, but few had been harder to get through minute by minute. Dean was not good at waiting. What else could he do? Sam had left behind his cell phone, so they couldn't call each other. If Dean left, Sam might come back. If he stayed, he might be wasting time he could be using looking for his brother. Dean rarely felt this conflicted, this pulled apart and indecisive. It was torture.

        This was one of those times Dean wished he smoked, just so he'd have something to do while pacing the room, practically wearing a track in the carpet. How many times had he gone outside to scan the area around the hotel, only to run back into the room to see if Sam had returned? Every few minutes, Dean found himself at the window, peering through the mini-blinds, until he finally thought to just raise them. What he hoped to see was Sam, walking toward the hotel, preferably unhurt, though at this point he'd almost settle on just finding his brother in one piece. But the surrounding area was always empty of the only person Dean needed to see. Every moment Sam didn't show up was another moment he wasn't safe. Dean thought he might explode every time he peered through those blinds and saw only cars in a parking lot.

        To deal with his anxiety, Dean finally went out to sit in the Impala, where he could still see the hotel room, but also could listen to a little music. After only a few of his own songs, he put in one of Sam's tapes, he just had to. Dean had nagged his brother into making these tapes before they left Stanford, and all of Sam's stuff had gone into storage. _"You need music to listen to, Sammy. Stuff that you like. I'm not doing all the driving,"_ Dean had said. How he had almost regretted those words when Sam was on hour four of his turn to drive and Dean thought he couldn't stand another out of tune note of the Violent Femmes or another wacky song by the Dead Milkmen. R.E.M. he could stand, though, much longer than some of the others. That was the tape Dean listened to now, the R.E.M. tape, so he could slide down in the seat and brood to himself about how scared he was that Sam was never coming back, that clothes and memories and tapes of old college rock would be all he had left to remind him of his baby brother.

        It was that song that did it. That "Everybody Hurts" song. It was just kind of sad. It was also the song that had made Sam cry for the first time since Jessica died. Dean had been expecting tears at some point, but it still took him by surprise when they were in the middle of that sappy song and he suddenly heard sobbing coming from the driver's seat. Sam, with his hand to his forehead, just sobbing and biting his lower lip like a child. Up until that time, Sam had been holding it in like a ticking time bomb. Dean had made him pull to the side of the road so he could take over the driving, and when the crying hadn't stopped, had put an arm around Sam's shoulder and pulled him across the seat so he could comfort him while they drove.

         _"It'll be alright, man,"_ he'd said.

         _"I'm sorry,"_ Sam replied between sobs. _"It's just... everybody hurts."_

        At the time, Dean couldn't help but smile to himself at how corny that sounded, but he understood what Sam meant then and he understood it more now. Sometimes, you just lived in the pain, even when you couldn't say why out loud. Sometimes it hurt too much to say it out loud. Instead, they'd continued on down the road with Dean holding his little brother with one arm, stroking his shoulder absently, and finished that damn sad song.

        The song did it again. It set off the only crying jag Dean would allow himself that day, one that lasted maybe two minutes at the most, which ended at about the same time the song did. He punched the seat of the Impala several times and just wailed over the thought that had crept in as the day was almost over. Though Dean had no desire to believe this, it was a distinct possibility that Sam had disappeared on purpose. Perhaps this was his way of getting his normal life. Goddamn, that thought hurt. If Sammy wanted to walk away, he'd just walk away, like he did before. He wouldn't go to such lengths.

        Unless Sam felt so trapped within his own family that he'd do anything to escape it. It made sense that he might do it if he thought Dean wouldn't let him go. But, how could he ever think that after all the times Dean _had_ let him go? Could it be Dad Sammy was trying to escape? No, he would never scare the hell out of his brother and father like that, by disappearing without a trace.

        Would he?

        Wouldn't that be the perfect way to start a new life?

        Dean, as morbid and selfish a thought as it was, almost hoped that Sam had been taken by something so he could just kill it and get his beloved brother back. He allowed himself that one self-serving thought as he sniffled over the fading notes of the R.E.M. song.

        Eventually, a strange man had called with the claim that he'd run into Sammy while hitchhiking, that Sam had given him Dean's number, telling him to call his brother and relate the message that Dean should meet him in Boston. When he'd asked where in Boston, the man had hung up. A vague lead was better than no lead. So here he was. Dean was amazed he'd been able to sleep at all in the last 48 hours. Something weird was going on here, and if it turned out the stranger was right, Dean was going to kill his little brother when he saw him again for worrying him like this, and for doing a fool thing like hitchhiking in his pajamas. What could be so important as to make Sam run off in such a hurry?

         _It's all a put-on._

        Yes, maybe it was. Maybe he was the biggest fucking idiot Bean Town had ever seen.

        This time, there was no way Sam was coming out of this alive. They were just tempting fate too hard. _No! Push that damn pessimistic thought down deep, you bitch._

        Dean needed this lead. He needed hope.

        After his beer, he planned to canvas all the places Sam might go, places he -

        Someone sat down next to Dean with a loud thump, bumping his arm pretty hard. The guy didn't say excuse me, so Dean turned toward him to give him a piece of his mind, but he stopped as he immediately saw that the guy's knuckles were bloody as hell. Dean took a better look at him. He looked like he was about one minute from going on a mass murder spree. Something had fucked the guy up royally, and he was a danger to himself by the look of his hands. Dean knew all about punching walls when you were angry. (Somehow, he doubted this guy had been in a fist fight. Beyond his current visage, he didn't appear to be much of a roughneck.) Dean thought that behind the disturbed, lost look, the dark haired guy was actually quite attractive, with a friendly face. What were the odds that this dude's problems could be solved by a demon hunter? Probably pretty slim. Still, he felt compelled to talk to him.

        "Hey man, what'd you do to your hands?"

        Paul noticed Dean was there for the first time. The blond looked fairly exhausted, but the half-lidded, sleepy-eyed look he wore wasn't unkind to him. In fact, Dean's looks were quite striking. Paul didn't normally obsess over the appearances of other men - he preferred women, usually. But he had grown up in an orphanage. The boys and girls were separated for many things, including sleeping, and young people whose sexuality was budding had to find an outlet somewhere. The boys were there. They were close, and they were always available. Consequently, Paul had experimented with the boys until he was old enough to get sneaky and go off to secret hiding places with the girls. To this day, when things got really bad, Paul found the most security and familiarity with guys. They provided the best comfort sex. It was not a constant thing at all anymore, but sometimes... every few years...

        As Paul gazed at Dean's cropped blond hair and chiseled features, he instantly wanted the man's comfort and the distraction he would provide, distraction from the memories.

        The way the dark-haired guy was looking at him... Christ, what had happened? "You okay, man?" Dean asked.

        Paul tried to regain his composure, but Dean's eyes were captivating, hypnotizing. The way they caught the light, and sparkled... he'd never seen hazel green eyes that did that before. "Uhhh. Me?"

        Dean laughed lightly. "Is there anyone else here?"

        Trying to swallow around a dry throat, Paul replied, "Um..." He looked around for ghosts. "...no."

        Dean looked around for whatever Paul had been looking around for. "Okay then. So what happened to your hands?"

        The bartender took Paul's drink order. He tried to concentrate on that and stop thinking of how nice it would be to take Dean home for cheap, anonymous sex that would have him in confession faster than one could say one-night stand. What was he thinking? _The pangs of pain, the sense of violation..._ Paul grabbed up the drink as soon as it was brought and took a long gulp. "I got into a fight with a coffee table," he finally said to Dean in answer.

        "Why?" Dean nursed his beer. "Did the table start it?"

        Taken by surprise by the joke, Paul glanced at him and chuckled. Dean was happy to make him laugh. Anything to get that schizo look off his face. "No..."

        "Then why?"

        In some ways, Paul minded the prying, and in other ways, he welcomed it. Still, his response was truthful, but sarcastic. "I was mad 'cause I got molested by a giant moth."

        "Who, the Mothman?"

        Paul coughed, sputtered, and choked on his drink. Had he really just said that? Who the hell was this guy? Paul looked at Dean and said, still coughing, "Who are you?!"

        His smile faltering slightly, Dean replied, "Joe. Joe Elliott. Nice to meet you."

         _His name is Dean Winchester._

        Paul was still a bit inexperienced with giving stealthy reactions to his gifts. Maybe he always would be. He actually looked around for the source of the voice, but it was in his head. Dean's eyes darted about as he wondered, again, who or what Paul was looking for.

        Why did Paul recognize that youthful voice? It sounded like... "Tommy?"

        Dean's amiable smile ticked at the corners. Had he told Paul that his name was Tommy? He could have sworn he'd used Joe Elliott this time. And he'd stopped using Tommy Lee years ago; the guy was too mainstream famous now. It was then that Dean realized Paul wasn't even looking at him. He was looking at the stool on the other side of Dean.

        Tommy sat on that stool. "I know you're not used to this now, Paul, so we'll talk this way for a while. But later, we can just talk in your head. Okay?"

        "Oh... kay. Tommy, are you alright?"

        Dean slowly turned his head to look at the stool. He saw no one.

        What he did see was a depression in the leather seat, as if someone was sitting on it.

        Just at that moment, a man ambled over to sit on that very stool. He swung his leg over and suddenly shuddered all over, hard, like he'd been dropped in a tub of ice water. The man backed off the stool with a startled look.

        "What's wrong with that one?" his friend asked him.

        "Cold draft," the man answered, and headed for a table instead.

        Dean looked from the stool to Paul, who still focused so hard on whomever he was talking to that he appeared to no longer notice Dean. Dean's expression showed his amazement with the revelations now running through his mind. The guy was talking to a ghost. He knew all the signs. Was he a true medium, or just being haunted? Who was Tommy?

        Blinking in stunned silence, Paul finally let out a small laugh at what had just happened. "That's gotta be odd, having people almost sit on you."

        Tommy watched the man walk away, then rolled his eyes. "It gets so annoying."

        Paul took in Tommy's appearance. He looked healthy. Good. A little older. Paul remembered Keel talking about how kids often grew up on the other side, sometimes becoming adults, because they were able to move on. Those who were not were frozen at a certain age. "You're okay?"

        "Me? Yeah. But the Darkness is still out there, Paul. You need help dealing with it."

        "I let you go... and you _look_ better, Tommy. But you've come back. Why?" Paul asked.

        "Because you need my help," Tommy repeated. "I can get you information that you need. Like his name." The boy nodded at Dean. "He uses fake names to protect himself and his brother. You need to know the truth, though. Dean should stick with you tonight. His brother is in danger."

        Paul glanced at Dean. _"He probably thinks I'm crazy, talking to an empty stool,"_ he thought.

        Tommy shook his head. "No he doesn't."

        Dean realized that Paul was seeing him again. Had the ghost just said something about him? Why would Tommy be talking about him? Dean suddenly went white as a sheet. "The ghost you're talking to... his name is Tommy? Not Sammy? You're sure of that?" Dean asked desperately.

        "Tell him his brother is alive," Tommy instructed.

        Paul swallowed hard. "Your brother is alive."

        Dean sucked in a loud breath, almost bursting into tears of relief right there. "He is?" His face suddenly became angry, and he grabbed Paul by the front of his shirt. "What do you know about Sam?"

        "Tell him there's no reason to deck you. Explain that you're getting stuff from the ghost, that the ghost knows things."

        Paul repeated what Tommy told him to, and it worked - Dean relaxed, letting him go. "Where's Sam?" Dean demanded to know.

        Tommy fed Paul information from the other side, which he dutifully reiterated for Dean. "All Tommy knows is that your brother was taken, but he's alive. A misguided being snatched him. But it will reveal its purposes soon."

        Dean collected his things. "Then I'll hunt it down. No one just takes my Sammy off into the night like that. I'll misguide this being's head right up its ass."

        "No!" Paul cried, grabbing his arm. "You've got to stay here. We're going to receive word from this being."

        "Tommy says so?" Dean sounded skeptical of listening to some spectre he didn't know on the subject of finding his brother.

        "Yes. Please trust us, Dean," pleaded Paul. "You should stick around here. We'll find your brother."

        Dean barely flinched. "Tommy told you my name," he stated.

        "Yeah. Dean Winchester."

        Closing his eyes briefly, he nodded and replied, "Yeah. Okay... I'll give you and Tommy a day. It's the only lead I've got right now." Unless the stranger who had told him to come to Boston called again with more concrete information. "So where are we going?"

        Tommy leaned forward so Paul could see him beyond Dean. "You asked how I was doing." He looked at him with concern. "How are you, Paul? 'Cause you don't look okay at all."

  
*****

  
        Paul was never comfortable talking about himself when it came to the psychic abilities. Dean pressed him hard on the drive back to Paul's apartment. He started before they even got into Dean's baby, his 1967 Chevy Impala. "Are you a psychic, a medium, or something else?"

        "Uh... yes to both. Or so everyone tells me."

        Dean unlocked the passenger side door, opened it for Paul, and watched him slide in. They came very close as Paul passed him on his way into the Impala. Did he smell cologne behind the scent of the alcohol on the guy's breath? Dean had always kind of liked cologne on a man. He grinned briefly to himself at the thoughts that passed through his mind. Even in the face of Sam's disappearance, he still had time for sexual fantasies. That was just Dean. "You're not comfortable with it?"

        Paul watched Dean walk around the front of the car and slip in behind the wheel. "If you had to live with it, you wouldn't be either." He looked at his hands.

        That made him think of Sam again, who seemed more concerned with Dean's reaction to his abilities than the effects on his own life. "Is that why you had a shit fit and busted up your hands?"

        Sighing, Paul shook his head. "I told you why."

        "You were attacked by the Mothman."

        Paul looked Dean full in the face, challenging him to disbelieve. "Yeah."

        Dean did not even blink. "My brother and I can help you with that kind of problem."

        "Judging from what Tommy said, your brother needs the help." He hadn't meant that to sound as bad as it did, but it came out that way.

        Dean grew solemn and quiet. The comment hurt his pride. It was like Paul was saying he'd failed at the job he cared most about - taking care of his baby brother. Dean didn't give a fuck what anybody thought, so why did he care what Paul thought?

        Sheepishly, Paul said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean - "

        "Don't worry about it," Dean mumbled, and started the car.

        Paul heard the deep rumble of the engine and the tape in the stereo as it came on; Dean hadn't turned it off before he got out of the car. _"Sleep all day, out all night. I know where you're going. I don't think that's actin' right, you don't think it's showing..."_

        "Hey, The James Gang. I love Joe Walsh," Paul said.

        "You do, huh?" Dean drove the car out of the parking spot.

        "Yeah. The Eagles is one of my favorite bands ever. Joe Walsh is such a distinctive guitarist; I always recognize his playing."

        "He is very distinctive. Where's your place?" Dean asked.

        "Take a left out of the parking lot."

        Dean did. "You don't have a car?"

        "Nuh uh. It got hit by a train." Paul had told the story so many times, it just came out of his mouth nonchalantly now.

        "No kidding?" He followed Paul's continued directions. "Can I ask you some questions?"

        Paul, flinching a little, answered, "Well, okay."

        "You haven't told me your name."

        A wicked smile twitched at the corners of Paul's mouth. "Steven Tyler."

        Dean snorted. "I deserved that."

        "No, seriously, my name's Paul Callan."

        "What do you do for a living, Paul?"

        With a shrug, he said, "I investigate the paranormal with a group of people."

        "There a lot of money in that?" Dean asked with a sarcastic grin.

        "No way," laughed Paul. "What about you? Why do you know so much about psychics and mediums and ghosts?"

        "Hey, I'm asking the questions here. You wait your turn," Dean said, dodging the fact that he did not reply. "Who's Tommy?"

        "You get answers when I get answers." Paul folded his arms across his chest.

        Dean rolled his eyes. "Oh please." The ghost Paul had been talking to knew things about Sam's disappearance. He had to play nice, stay on this guy's good side. "Alright," Dean said in an annoyed tone. "My family hunts demons and other dangerous entities."

        "They can be hunted?"

        "Shit yeah."

        Paul wasn't sure how that worked, if he even wanted to know, or if he even fully believed it. Somehow he knew Dean spoke the truth, but a part of him was too scared to pursue it further. If he thought the Darkness was bad...

        "So who's Tommy?" Dean repeated.

        Silent for a few seconds, lost in thought, Paul finally replied, "He was a child I investigated back when I worked for the church."

        Dean gazed over at him in astonishment. "You worked for the church?!"

        "Yeah. The Catholic church of Boston."

        That explained the rosary he wore. "Whoa."

        "Tommy could heal people, but he was really sick. Every time he healed someone, he got sicker and sicker." Paul swallowed down a lump of emotion. "The boy died, and the church brushed it off. They said there was no proof of a true miracle. So I quit."

        "Oh." This reminded Dean of the faith healer who'd saved his sorry life. Except, a little boy died healing other people. That was almost too sad to deal with. "I'm sorry he died."

        "Me too." Paul tried to change the subject. "It was after that that I started seeing Tommy's ghost."

        Dean looked in the rearview mirror. "Is he here now?"

        Checking the back seat, Paul shook his head. "Turn in here. This is my apartment building."

        As they were getting out of the car, Paul commented, "Um, there's something you should know before we go upstairs. You've already seen me talking to one, so it's probably not going to be a big surprise, but I tend to get visited by ghosts a lot. And I talk to them out loud, though you won't be able to see them unless they want you to. It kind of, ah, makes me look crazy, I guess. I try not to do it in public. Tommy's return, though... that's a big deal. I couldn't help it that time. Anyway, there are certain ghosts who come back repeatedly. I guess you could say my apartment is haunted."

        "Oh, really?" Dean smiled amiably and shrugged. "No biggee." Before he closed the door, Dean grabbed his larger duffel bag, the one that had his first-aid kit, guns, and knives in it. Most importantly, this bag held the sawed-off shotgun, filled with rounds of rock salt. Haunted apartment, huh? Dean could take care of that, at least for the night.

        On the way inside, as they were nearing Paul's front door, he suddenly gasped as if someone had startled him, but Dean saw no one else in the corridor. "Tommy, don't _do_ that."

        "I'm sorry, Paul. But you have to know something before you go in." Tommy stood near the door.

        Dean, of course, couldn't see the boy, but he knew Paul could, so he waited patiently.

        Tommy continued, "Be wary of Mrs. Keel."

        "Why?"

        "She's not very stable. Especially concerning you."

        Paul blinked in confusion. "Huh? Why would she have a problem with me?" He remembered how when Keel's mother had been comforting him, stroking his head, she had at times been a little rough. "Tom - "

        When Paul looked for him again, Tommy was gone.

        Dean noticed his reaction. "Did Tommy go away again?"

        "Yes." He sounded frustrated.

        "We should probably go inside."

        After what Tommy had said, suddenly his own home was an ominous place, with the spectre of Mrs. Keel hanging over his head. "Honey, I'm home," Paul joked sarcastically.

        Dean took in the appearance of the apartment. "Someone else here?"

        Closing the door, Paul shot back, "My boss's dead mother." There was an edge to his voice. He stared at Dean, gauging his reaction.

        Dean realized he was being tested. Would he stay, or freak and run? Paul didn't know who he was dealing with. But that was okay. Dean could stand the test. "Does she at least help out around the house? Wash windows, do laundry?"

        Paul barked out a laugh. "No, so far all she's done is comfort me while I cried."

        Boy, this guy was really drama queening it up. Dean gave him the benefit of the doubt because he'd seen many people in his life who had every right to be dramatic about their problems. He made a mental note of things that seemed significant, and not so significant... crucifix on the wall, splintered coffee table, ironing board (this guy did his own ironing?), small dining room table with chairs that didn't match, and the smell of women's perfume. The scent was very light, like the smell of a phantom, and it didn't belong here. Dean didn't like the atmosphere. He'd felt it before, in haunted houses. "What'd Tommy have to say?"

        "He told me to watch out for Mrs. Keel, the mother. Said she was unstable." Paul stalked the living room a bit, too wound up to sit.

        "I believe it. I don't like the atmosphere in here." Dean glanced around. "Your place _feels_ haunted." Even so, he was staying for a while, so he removed his jacket. When he did, Dean carefully palmed the Glock he'd had tucked in the back of his waistband and hid it inside the jacket, which he laid over his bag on the floor.

        Noises behind Dean caught Paul's attention, distracting him. He leaned a bit to the right to see around the buff blond.

        A teenage girl sobbed in the corner by the bookshelf. She looked at him, then went back to her crying. The girl had Mrs. Keel's hair and eyes. Vivian Keel at a young age? No, he didn't think so. Some other relative?

        The girl said to Paul, "You have no idea who you are," and went on sobbing.

        Paul was still in a dark mood. He didn't want to help anyone right now, except maybe Dean. Or help himself _to_ Dean. Paul just wanted the girl to go away. This was his home, not an open forum for the dead. "All the ghosts love to hang around my place. Paul's apartment, our home sweet home," Paul said, spreading out his arms. "You want to feel a real honest-to-goodness ghostly cold spot? Put your hand right there."

        Dean looked at the spot to which Paul had pointed. He'd known something was there from Paul's reaction. "I've felt ghosts before lots of times." But, to make Paul happy, he dutifully stuck his hand right into the teenage girl, not really knowing who he was touching. The ghost recoiled. Dean shuddered a little at how cold the spot felt; it was many degrees cooler than the air around it. She looked at Paul as if he'd betrayed her, before dissolving from view.

        Shivering again, Dean mused, "Nothing feels like the cold of a spectre, huh?"

        "Got that right." Standing over the remains of his coffee table, Paul frowned. "Really was a nice table."

        "You wanna tell me about it?" Dean stepped around the table and sat on the couch. He looked up at Paul expectantly.

        With a deep sigh, Paul blurted it all out. "Years ago, the Mothman attacked me, putting a pod in my throat that took control of my body and mind. He made me go to this town in Vermont and make phone calls. The creature cannot speak for itself, so I spoke for it."

        "And the Mothman predicted an avalanche that killed 36 people. Yeah, I've read all about it. You were involved in that?" Dean asked. "That is a famous supernatural case. They seem to have left out some of the little details, though."

        "Like me." Pacing the living room, Paul laughed in a hysterical tone. "I just found out today. I'd blocked it out all these years, but I was hypnotized this morning, and it all came back." He wrapped his arms around his head in an effort to block out the world. "Why do these bizarre things happen to me? Why can't I have a normal life? Oh God, will I ever have a normal life?"

        "Hey, hey..." Dean got up and put his hands on Paul's shoulders, intending to calm him.

        His hands felt so strong and grounding. Paul turned to him, looking into Dean's eyes. He ached for Dean to hold him, kiss him, take him away from all this, to a place where he had only to think of comfort and pleasure, like all those nights in his adolescence that were about nothing but sexual discovery and gratification. Paul wanted nothing but to feel good.

        Dean knew that look. He didn't like labels. But when one looked at his sexual partners from the past, the term "bisexual" probably applied. Dean preferred the term "opportunist." When you traveled as much as he did, you couldn't have a relationship. Not really. When he met someone he found attractive, he took it where he could get it. And Paul wanted it.

        The crucifix on the wall, the fact that Paul had once worked for the church... this guy was a bit pious, wasn't he? Dean couldn't help it; he enjoyed corrupting people like that in the bedroom. It was a nice challenge. Get them so riled up and frenzied they'd beg to be fucked like a wild animal. Everyone had a side like that, they just needed a wicked mother like Dean Winchester to bring it out of them.

        Dean started on that right away. He leaned in, hands coming up to cup Paul's jaw, and kissed him passionately. _WHAM_ , and Paul instantly started to get hard. _"Yes, yes, give me what I want!"_ Paul thought. Delicious shivers ran up and down his back and legs. His breathing quickened into Dean's mouth, his hands sliding up the other man's arms... wow, Dean had nice, buff arms. The kiss was leisurely and exciting, but over much too soon. When their warm lips parted, it made a long, slow sucking sound.

        "You're really hurting," Dean stated quietly.

        Paul nodded with desperation. "Take the pain away," he whispered.

         _Mm._ Was it really possible that someone could sound that sexy when they whispered? Dean's body began to respond, but he felt he should take care of Paul's full physical state first. "I will, I promise. But first, I want to take care of your hands. Let me clean and dress them before I _undress_ you."

        As reluctant as Paul was to stop, he had to admit that his hands did still hurt pretty bad, and the pain was distracting. "Okay. Let's go in the bedroom. I can sit on the bed." Hey, at least when his hands were taken care of, they could just continue where they left off. He hoped. That comment about undressing him was very encouraging, but it was always possible the guy was stringing him along. Oh God, please, don't let Dean be teasing.

        Paul sat on the edge of his full-size bed and offered his hands to Dean, who sat on his knees on the floor with the first-aid kit. He used special gauze pads presoaked in alcohol to clean the dried blood off Paul's knuckles. "Wiggle your fingers for me."

        Paul did, wincing a bit. "That hurts."

        "In a sore way, or a bone-grating-on-bone way?"

        Paul just about winced again at Dean's description of the pain. "Sore way."

        "You probably didn't break anything, then, but you might want to get your hands x-rayed if they still hurt that much in a couple days." Dean examined the pattern of bruises on Paul's right hand. It confused him. "What made these bruises like this?"

        For some reason, Paul became sheepish at the explanation. "I had this rosary wrapped around my hand while I was, uh, punching the table." He shrugged.

        "Oh." Dean lingered over the bruises. "You can see the outline of the beads... and is this the crucifix?"

        Paul nodded. "Yeah. I forgot the necklace was there."

        Dean swallowed hard, still looking at Paul's hand. There was something poetic about the way the rosary had marked him. "Is it special to you?"

        "Yes." Paul fingered the necklace with his free hand. "It was my mother's."

         _Was_ his mother's... Dean changed the subject, out of a desire not to upset Paul with other sad memories. He had no idea he was walking into one with his next line of questioning. "Why do you think Tommy has come back to deliver all these messages to you? Did you two bond somehow?"

        There was a long pause. "You know how I said that my car got hit by a train?"

        "Yeah."

        "I was in it at the time."

        "What? Then how..." Dean looked shocked. "Tommy healed you."

        "Yes." Paul got that uncomfortable look he always wore when talking about the sacrifice that Tommy made for him. That guilty look that said he was never going to feel right about it.

        "He got sicker?"

        "No... that was the healing that killed him."

        Dean, eyes wide, stopped moving for several moments before slowly continuing the cleaning of Paul's hands. He needed something else to look at besides Paul's pain-filled eyes. "That's rough, man. Really, really rough." It took him a minute to be able to continue. "Though it's not as bad as that, I had a similar experience. I kinda know how you feel."

        Surprised, Paul asked, "What happened?"

        "Sam and I were taking care of this demon, and I got a little too close when I electrocuted it. I was sitting right there in a puddle of water... stupid. It was stupid of me. The current passed right into my body."

        Paul cringed.

        "It thrashed my heart. I had a heart attack and everything. Doctors were all hey, nothing we can do, we won't touch 'im, he's a goner." Dean kept his eyes on the knuckles he was tending to; a part of him was afraid if he looked up into Paul's face, he'd see disapproval there. "I was ready - um... I mean, Sam wanted to try anything he could to save my sorry life. He took me to a faith healer, if you can believe it. The guy healed my heart, good as new. Amazing, huh? But not if you know that it was at the cost of the reaper taking another life. There was an exchange." He finally looked tentatively into Paul's expectant eyes. "There aren't many other things I've done in my life that I felt that horrible and guilty about. I never wanted to go on living that way. But in your case, it was a child who passed on. That's just... I mean..." Dean shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I can't find the words to express how sucky fate can be, to do something like that to you. It's too much. I wish I could change it for you."

        "Yeah, well." Paul wasn't sure what to say, either. "I've prayed many nights for the outcome of that healing to be different, but those prayers are never answered. I guess we have something else in common besides a little music."

        "I'd say it's a pretty profound something." Dean took out a roll of gauze and started wrapping Paul's hands.

        Watching him, Paul smiled just a little. "Thanks for caring."

        Dean didn't say anything, just grinned back. The light caught his eyes again. God, they were beautiful when they twinkled.

        Seeing Paul looking at him like that, Dean grinned wider, pretty much smirking, and took a good nosy look around Paul's room while still working the roll of gauze around the man's hand. Paul's closet was open, and in it, he could see many dress shirts, slacks, sport coats, more casual clothes, and even some ties. Did Dean own a single tie that he didn't have simply because sometimes, in his various charades, he had to pretend to be respectable? The guy definitely had more dressy clothes than he did casual. Jeez, Paul seemed to have enough Dockers to clothe an entire office full of men. Dean brought his eyes back around to Paul, who was looking down at him curiously, wondering what Dean was looking at. He liked the fact that Paul was sort of pretty, but not girly, with fairly nice upper arms and a chest that filled out the white ribbed shirt he wore attractively. Paul's lips looked soft (and had felt the same), and so did his hair; what'd the guy use, conditioner? Dean found that to be too much of a bother, but he didn't have as much hair anyway. They both had the long, delicate eyelashes, true mark of the pretty boy, although Dean didn't like the label, and had worked out, fought, and shot his way across the United States to prove his looks were not the measure of his strength. Dean Winchester was no creampuff. He didn't think Paul was either, but he certainly wasn't used to getting his fingernails dirty like Dean did on almost every job. Paul definitely wasn't a mental creampuff if he could watch a child die to save him and still be standing. The guy was, inside and out, hot property. Very different from anyone Dean had ever known. That intrigued him.

        Paul smirked, and did a fake cough. Hm, boy, but did Dean like that wicked little smirk. It promised a secret side to come. "Um, Dean?" He took his hand away and lifted it to show Dean that he'd wrapped the gauze around Paul's hand so many times that he couldn't bend his fingers.

        They shared a snicker. "Sorry, I was distracted," Dean said, a little embarrassed.

        Paul gestured toward his closet. "Should I do a fashion show?"

        Dean explained, "I was just curious... about how you live. It's so different from how Sam and I live. I mean, your clothes, and you smell really good... is that cologne?"

        This whole display had grown flattering. "Yeah. You like it?"

        "Uh huh. I can't even wear deodorant half the time. The prey can smell it." Dean removed the excess gauze from Paul's hand, moving faster than he had before. He was getting really restless to do this guy, playing that hot, slow kiss over and over in his mind. "But you... I know under all this blood and pain, you're stunning."

        Paul's face flushed with embarrassment and flattery. "Wow..."

        Dean just smiled at his reaction. He didn't hide his feelings when he really wanted someone to know how he felt. "You're pretty vain, though. But it seems to be worth it."

        Shaking his head, Paul replied, "I guess so." He wasn't sure if that should offend him or not, being called vain. It was just how he was raised to dress and take care of himself.

        "I think you're what Sam would call metrosexual."

        Paul burst out laughing, putting his free hand over his eyes. "You are too much, Dean Winchester."

        Dean simply grinned in his smooth way. "That's what they tell me." He went to wrap the other hand. "Do you think you can get blood out of this nice white shirt? 'Cause I don't know if you've noticed, but you got flecks of it all over the shirt, especially the cuffs."

        Paul shrugged. "I've become an expert at getting blood out of my clothing, trust me."

        "You get hurt a lot?"

        "Yeah, sorta."

        "Yeah, me too. A part of you starts to thrive on the pain after it happens enough," Dean said, making what was for him small talk while he finished up Paul's hand.

        Why did that comment disturb Paul so? Because there was a grain of truth in it for him too? Hadn't it felt good to destroy the table not only because it released his anger, but because he was starting to like the pain a little? And he thought he understood that. Head injuries, fights, his own suicide and "resurrection," and more emotional pain than one man should have to take, and you had someone who needed an outlet to process the pain in a way he could handle. How exactly that would flesh itself out, time would tell.

        Dean finished wrapping Paul's other hand, and smirked up at him. "Done. You know, you shouldn't abuse hands like these. They're kinda sexy, what with the long fingers and thumbs." He took both of Paul's hands in his own, leaned down, and kissed the back of one hand. Paul smirked sideways at that one; the guy was smooth as silk. "I like these hands. I want them on me."  



	2. These Hands

A **Miracles/Supernatural** Cross-over Fanfic  
by Laurel (Sailorhathor)

 **Chapters:** 2 of 5  
 **Rating:** Adult17+  
 **Word Count:** 40,864 total; 10,660 this chapter  
See Parts I and V for Author's Notes and Credits.

 **Part II: These Hands**

        Next thing Paul knew, his hands had been placed on Dean's chest, and Dean was climbing on the bed with him, kissing him hard. The sex was back on! _Yes!_ Paul definitely kissed back, running his hands over the defined lines in Dean's chest through his shirt. He slipped his hands under the t-shirt and started pulling it off over Dean's head. With a bothered grunt, Dean leaned up a bit, yanked the unwanted shirt off, and tossed it carelessly on the floor. Paul made a little bit of a face, looking after the discarded piece of clothing, but his attention was quickly stolen back by Dean trying to take off his shirt too. Dean had a hold of the bottom hem, but Paul lightly pushed his hands off.

        "Nuh uh," he hummed, then took a small amount of time to put the rosary inside his shirt so it wouldn't get in the way. He reached over his head, grabbed the back of his collar, and carefully pulled the shirt off over his head.

        Dean looked confused, then chuckled heartily. "I've never seen a person take their shirt off that way."

        "Keeps it from turning inside out." Paul shrugged. He couldn't get to the chair near the bed with Dean on top of him, so he held the shirt out. "Would you lay this across that chair?"

        "Why, so it doesn't get wrinkled?" Dean said with a smirk.

        "Exactly."

        Chuckling harder, he asked, "It's covered in blood flecks and you're worried about it getting wrinkled?"

        "Would you just do it?" Paul's lust was making him impatient.

        Dean, amused, said, "Metrosexual," and, just to rub the joke in, extended his pinkies like the shirt was a fine cup of tea before tossing it as carefully as he cared to onto the chair. Paul seemed satisfied, although he gave Dean a brief, scolding glare.

        Paul now wore nothing above the waist but his watch and the rosary. Dean liked the sight of Paul shirtless in that rosary; there was something wicked sexy about doing this guy while he was wearing it. How bad was that? Guy was supposed to be Catholic and he had a hellion like Dean Winchester on top of him. _Hot_.

        Although Dean's build was a heavy distraction from any other visual stimulation, Paul still noticed a scattering of scars on his body. Most were small; Dean could thank the first aid his father taught him for that. But there was a long, thin burn on his shoulder that was still healing. Paul wondered where it came from, and just how violent Dean's daily life had to be to mark him that much.

        Paul worked at removing Dean's belt, breathing a little harder, but immediately started to wince because the action hurt his hands; a belt sure could be a tricky thing under those circumstances. Dean waited and watched with secret amusement for several seconds, but then got impatient. Paul managed the buckle finally, just getting it open when Dean shoved him down on the bed and kissed him again. He then went for Paul's neck. Paul felt teeth and lips going at his skin. Dean seemed to have a thing for nibbling and biting. There were hot, quick breaths tickling Paul's ear, then teeth digging lightly into his earlobe before running up the ridge of his ear. "Damn, I like the way you smell," Dean's voice, heavy with arousal, said to him.

        Paul had to moan out loud and make soft sounds of surprise at the rough attention. Dean was like some beautiful, wild animal. Paul uttered another surprised noise when Dean did a graceful move that slid both of his legs between Paul's, forcing his thighs apart. He ground down on Paul's crotch hard with his own. Dean had purposefully maneuvered the dangling belt buckle so it was ground between them, biting into both of them through their pants.

        Paul cried out, caught off guard by the delicious pain. He bit at his lower lip. Pleasure burned through his entire crotch as Dean made lazy grinding circles, then would hump against him with stabbing gyrations. "Mmmmuh, uuuuh..." he moaned.

        Dean continued to kiss and bite his neck, pulling at Paul's skin, moving along the bends and folds.

        Paul, grinning to himself, decided to surprise Dean back. He slapped Dean's ass, keeping his hand there, squeezing and holding him down while he kept grinding. Dean chuckled wickedly into his neck and gave him a harder bite to get even, dragging his teeth along Paul's throat. Paul made a sound between pleasure and pain. He started to grind back. They became a hip rotating, heavy breathing contraption. Paul eventually arched into Dean and threw his head back, exposing even more of his throat to Dean's lips, tongue, and teeth. "Dean..."

        There wasn't much that got Dean off more than hearing someone moan his name like that. He wasn't sure how this was going to go; he'd let Paul gauge that, although he'd try to swing things his way. They were both already pretty hard. Dean thought grinding to mutual orgasm would be pretty okay, but he'd rather fuck this guy - he liked fucking. _A lot_. But he had no idea if Paul had ever taken it that way. Dean had, a few times in his life, simply because he felt that vibe with the guy he was with at the time. Paul just looked so deliciously _fuckable_ ; head thrown back, mouth open, breathing heavy and letting out aroused moans, small fading bite marks on his throat... the combination of visual stimulation nearly drove Dean to orgasm. He had a mental fantasy of throwing Paul on his stomach, yanking off those pants, and ramming his dick in that perfect little ass. No, no, mustn't do that. Must have patience.

        Paul's other hand caressed up and down Dean's chest. "Mmm... you are not too muscular and not too small... you're juuuust right," he said teasingly.

        "Thank you, Goldilocks."

        Paul snickered.

        Dean kissed him, sticking his tongue in Paul's mouth. This is exactly the comfort Paul wanted, the feeling of a warm male body on his. While he loved the feeling of a female body against him, the male body felt quite different, and Dean on him brought up soothing, warm feelings of sleeping in the same bed with another boy. _Before the sun comes up, we gotta get back in our own beds; the nuns can't catch us..._ Paul smiled into the tongue kiss.

        Dean had begun to unbutton Paul's pants to move things along a little bit when Paul heard a gasp in the corner. A long, shocked gasp. It startled him, so he quickly turned his head, breaking the kiss, to look.

        The teenage ghost girl who seemed to be related to Keel stood in the corner, hands over her mouth, watching Dean and Paul in shock. She definitely didn't expect to see that. The girl slapped her hands over her eyes.

        Paul was instantly angry. Today had been all about invasions to his privacy, and apparently, now was no exception. This was the ultimate slap to the face - he was in the middle of sex, for Christ's sake! There had to be limits to when these ghosts could barge in, there had to be.

        "What is it?" Dean asked.

        Paul suddenly remembered the abilities Diane McNeal had passed on to him. He'd found that he could only use them when he focused his will in certain ways, or was under extreme duress and the powers burst from him involuntarily. Grasping Dean's wrist, Paul concentrated on making him see the girl.

        Dean looked where Paul was looking. He abruptly gasped, pulling away from Paul by reflex. "I saw... some girl. Did you do that? Make me see her?"

        Paul nodded. "Yeah. It's called projective clairvoyance."

        "I've never seen an ability like that. What's she doing in here?" Dean could tell the appearance of the ghost had rattled Paul, and that made him mad. Just because you were dead didn't mean you had the right to be openly rude. And her presence threatened the continuance of the nookie, he just knew it! Dean got off the bed, sauntering on his feet, and undid his jeans. He pushed them down a bit along with his boxers to briefly expose his hard cock. "Is this what you came to see? Fuck off, bitch. You're killing the mood."

        Dean could no longer see the girl, but Paul could. She looked at Dean in horror. "Reprobate! You... you rakehell!" she screamed, and sprang forward, slapping him across the face.

        Dean recoiled, putting his hand to his chin. "Whoa, cold blast. What'd she do?"

        "Slapped you." Usually, Paul would have been extremely offended to hear a man talk to a woman like that, but in this case, he simply felt too violated to care. Grinding his teeth, Paul said to the girl, "Just because I can see you doesn't mean you can come in here whenever you want like I'm a 24-hour buffet. I need time to myself to do the things _live_ people do. Remember those things?"

        It was like he was rubbing it in that she was dead, and could no longer share in Earthly pleasures. She again looked at him like he'd betrayed her, then dissolved from view.

        That was all Paul could take. Why did he have to be available all the time, just because they needed someone to talk to? Some things had to wait. Paul shook with anger. He put his bandaged hands into his hair. "Why can't I have the things everyone else has?"

        Dean, who had become fairly comfortable with his abnormal life for the most part, recognized the signs of a man about to lose it, and got back on the bed with Paul. "Hey, shhhhh, you can have them." He wrapped his arms around him and held him, touching his hair, easing his arms down. Dean was used to being the strong, protective comforter, which is exactly what Paul needed at that moment.

        Still shaking in a bad way, Paul begged Dean to explain it to him. "Why can't I be normal, Dean? They just come in here whenever they feel like and show me horrible things. Sometimes I think I'll go crazy."

        He'd never thought about the life of a medium that way. Paul was really suffering! He needed a good outlet for his anger today. Dean wanted to make that sacrifice for him, to put Paul's sexual needs before his own. He took Paul's face in his hands again and placed several kisses on his lips. Paul took a few seconds to begin to melt and respond.

        "It's okay, Paul. There are things that can be done to lessen all your problems with the ghosts, I promise. We can make this better. But now..." Going on a hunch, Dean opened the top drawer of the nightstand and found just what he'd expected - condoms and warming lube. Even the ones who looked innocent had a stash just in case, if they had a sex life at all. Dean held up a condom, and with a very serious look, said, "Put it into me. Get it all out of your system, Paul. Put it all into me."

        He didn't make the connection right away. "You want me to..."

        Dean leaned forward to give Paul's neck a kiss and whisper in his ear, "Fuck me, Paul. As hard as you want." He didn't appreciate being topped with most men, but when it felt right... he liked it rough.

        That warm breath and the lewd, sexy words in his ear made Paul shudder in a good way. "Dean... um..."

        Grinning, Dean opened Paul's hand and put the condom in it. Then he slipped the bottle of lube in that hand too. "Don't use too much. Remember, a little pain can be a good thing." He started to take off his jeans, but the look on Paul's face stopped him. "You don't want to?"

        Paul, looking at the items in his hands, suddenly laughed nervously. "I've only done... anal sex... once, when I was a teenager, and it was with a girl."

        "You experimented with your girlfriend?"

        "Yeah. It was a disaster," Paul laughed. "She didn't like it."

        "Some women don't. But they don't have all the same things men have." With a smirk, Dean leaned into Paul again, speaking softly near his ear. " _I_ will like it."

        Paul's eyes widened; he seemed embarrassed, but also licked his lips as he looked over Dean's body again. He really was a good-looking man. Dean wanted this, and would do anything to get Paul to relax. He decided to encourage the mood by doing a little striptease. He pulled his belt from the loops slowly, beginning to sway his hips a bit. Paul watched, then laughed, shifting his eyes around nervously.

        Dean threw the belt on the floor, and took Paul's chin in his hand, lifting it so their eyes locked. "Don't be embarrassed, get into it," he said in an encouraging tone. "The show's all for you."

        Paul, trying to relax, watched Dean roll off the bed and reach to remove his pants. He allowed himself to appreciate the aesthetics of Dean's body, which was, like he'd said earlier, "just right." As his fly was still undone, Dean put his hands behind his head, striking a confident pose, and, maintaining eye contact with Paul, rotated and bucked his hips sensually to get the jeans to slide slowly down his thighs to his ankles. He was wearing dark blue boxers, the kind that hugged a man's legs instead of hanging loose. Dean turned around so Paul could get a good look at the tight ass he'd spanked.

        Paul fell temporarily silent as he caressed that body with his eyes. The lightly scarred but well-muscled back was just as pleasant a sight as the perfectly formed butt. Dean had such confidence, such a saunter and a swagger to every move he made - it was so sexy! There was some conceit in there too, but he had good reason for it. The cut demon hunter looked at Paul over his shoulder and smirked at him as he circled his left hip and slid that side of the boxers down as he did. Paul had to laugh again, but out of excited amusement this time.

        Dean slid his thumb under the waistband of his underwear on the other side and slid that side down too so Paul could get a good look at his bare ass. He shook it around a little.

        That really made Paul chuckle. "Hm." He leaned over to look at it from a different angle.

        Dean finally sat on the edge of the bed to remove his boots and pants, almost naked now. Paul just had to interrupt. He kissed Dean's neck on the side, nipping a little in imitation of what Dean had done to him earlier, which was very distracting.

        "Just lemme get my boots off and we'll be in business," Dean said.

        Paul looked at the bobbing, hard cock in Dean's lap. "We have a matching set."

        "I'll show you mine if you - "

        Paul reached over and ran the rim of Dean's cock head with his finger. "Mmph," Dean moaned briefly in surprise. He tried to take his pants off faster.

        Paul did what he could to make it as hard as possible for Dean to simply get naked, just to aggravate him. He ducked under Dean's arm and put his mouth on the cock that just begged for his attention.

        "Muh... Paul!" Dean growled impatiently. He suddenly realized he was getting _mad_ at Paul for sucking his dick. _This is not a problem, Einstein_. Paul snickered around his cock, causing nice vibrations. "Damn, baby..." Dean moaned. He decided to lie back on the bed and try to remove the rest of his clothes with his feet while Paul gave his rod a little polishing.

        Paul had always loved to give head. He especially liked doing it to women, but men were fun too. More than one person had said he was good at it. Very good. Paul had no intention of finishing Dean off right now; he just wanted to play with him a little.

        Rimming the head of Dean's cock with his tongue, Paul pulled away to say, "You like my hands?"

        "Yeah," Dean breathed.

        Paul spread some lube from the bottle on his first two fingers. "Then you might like what I do with them." He slid his slicked-up fingers under Dean's thigh. Dean took the hint and put his now-bare foot up on the bed, which raised that thigh. Paul then applied some of the warming lube, rimming and stroking a bit before inserting his first two fingers.

        "Nnnnuh," Dean moaned, squirming on the bed.

        Paul slowly ran his fingers out and then back in, out and in, lubricating him. The lube began to warm on contact with the skin, which was extremely pleasant. Paul's other hand, he slid down Dean's stomach and between his legs to caress his balls with those long fingers the man seemed to like; at the same time, he put his mouth back on the hard, throbbing cock before him.

        Dean moaned again. He arched his back, his hand going to Paul's head to stroke his hair.

        Leaning over farther, Paul took more of Dean into his mouth before pulling back up, almost agonizingly slow, making the man tremble and breathe hard beneath him. "Mm, aaah, Paul... fuck me Paul..." Although he said that, Dean still held onto Paul's head with a little downward pressure, like he didn't want him to stop.

        Bringing his head up, Paul did it slowly, sucking and licking the whole length. When he lifted his mouth from Dean's cock, he left it with a long, sucking kiss, adding a small one to its tip. He reached up and playfully threw Dean's hand off his head. "Then let go, Dean," Paul said with a grin.

        "Couldn't help it," he said in a voice heavy with lust. "You do that real well."

        Paul didn't even have his pants off yet. He unbuttoned them well enough, but couldn't do anything else without his other hand. Dean saw him struggling with the uncooperative zipper, and, not wanting Paul to stop finger-fucking him, reached over and helped Paul get his pants and underwear down. Paul's crotch was exposed now, and Dean longed for him at the sight of it. He also helped Paul put on the condom without drawing it out because he wanted Paul in him already. Paul was amused at Dean's insistence that he act as a second hand just so Paul didn't have to stop what his real second hand was doing. But it was time to remove his fingers now, to move on to hotter things.

        Paul, panting, stepped off the bed, allowing his pants and underwear to slip down his legs, and squirted more lube into his hand.

        "Hey, don't use so much," Dean protested.

        "This isn't, uh, for that. Most guys like a little lotion on their palm when they beat off, right? So it feels like a real sex act?"

        Dean _liked_ those dirty fucking words coming out of such an angelic little mouth. He was corrupting the pious little churchgoer in the bedroom. Not much could make him want Paul more than that. Dean remarked on the idea of beating off with lotion, "So it feels like a wet pussy."

        "Uh, yeah." They shared a mutual shiver as they both recalled how good women could feel, too. "You don't think I'm going to make you get yourself off here." Paul wrapped his hand around Dean's cock as he got on his knees on the bed. "Not when you're offering yourself to me like this."

        Dean moaned at the feeling of that slippery hand on his dick. Paul was maneuvering himself between his legs. Dean opened them to allow him room. They were going to fuck face to face; _nice_. "Hey, you're ruining all my handiwork with that lube. The gauze must be soaked."

        "Oh, sorry." Paul's snickery tone betrayed how insincere that apology really was. "We would have had to change it anyway after the post-sex shower."

        "Then why'd you let me wrap them in the first place?" Dean asked.

        Shrugging, Paul replied, "Thought you might like the texture."

        Paul began to stroke down Dean's cock very slowly as he eased his own hardness up to the entrance of the younger man. He was able to put himself into position, then began to bear in as he crawled further up Dean's body. Paul felt himself entering Dean. He did it slowly to prolong the pleasure and pain.

        Dean arched his back and let out a series of louder and louder moans as Paul slid up inside him. His thighs quaked in reaction. "Paaaul..." he said through gritted teeth.

        His mouth dropping open, Paul took a deep, loud breath. The hand he had on Dean's cock temporarily stopped pumping because too much movement right then would have made Paul cum. The further in he got, the harsher his breathing became. Paul growled, "Rrr... Dean, you're so _tiiight_!" His free hand braced himself on the bed, squeezing the sheets and blanket in his fingers, while he tried not to cum right then and there. The tightness of Dean, his warmth wrapped around him, the slippery warm sensation caused by the lube... it was almost an overload of pleasure for Paul.

        With an evil smirk, Dean hooked one leg around Paul's waist and rubbed his bare rear end with his calf and toes. He deliberately squirmed to cause friction on Paul's cock. Paul gasped and snarled out a moan. "Does it feel good?" Dean asked with mock innocence.

        "Sssssoh, you are _wicked_ ," Paul hissed, and waited for the trembles to calm down so he could move without cumming too quick. "I'm gonna make you pay for that." As if to show him, Paul eased almost fully out, and rammed himself back in, being rough on purpose.

        "Ahhh!" Dean cried. His body gave a mighty shiver all over. "Give it to me, Paul. Just like that!"

        Paul did it again, his hand beginning to move once more, stroking Dean slowly and firmly. He moaned appreciatively. Paul was right; the gauze gave the hand-job a bit of exciting texture. After half a minute of humping, Paul leaned further over Dean, bracing again with his free hand, so he could plunge himself in deeper. His rosary dangled just over Dean's chest, the cool metal crucifix brushing his skin. Dean wore his own Egyptian amulet necklace, and soon, the motion of their sex had the two idols dancing and clinking together. In that way, their chosen gods conversed while they spoke their own language of merged souls.

        Paul leaned over and kissed Dean deeply on the mouth. "Dean... ahh, Dean!"

        "Put it all... into me..." he said again, breathing heavy as he pressed into Paul's thrusts. Dean closed his eyes to lose himself in the dual sensations. "Mmm, Paul... baby..."

        "You feel so good," Paul whispered breathily. That sent a nice shiver down Dean's spine; the man really did sound sexy when he spoke so softly.

        Paul spent the next few minutes giving Dean's neck a good once over with his tongue and lips, kissing and sucking on it. He'd thrown his head back and presented it so nicely, how could Paul resist? Next thing either of them knew, Paul was expelling heavy pants against the side of Dean's throat, some of them accompanied by longing moans, and the utterance of Dean's name. "Uh! Dean! Dean! I'm going... I'm about to... making me... cum... ahh!"

        "Keep going... right there... with you, Paul!" With another wicked grin, Dean deliberately pushed Paul over the edge. He locked eyes with him, knowing that Paul had been gazing into his luminescent eyes all day, and said, "Make love to me, Paul," and kissed him ever so softly on the mouth, a feathery brush of the lips. Inwardly, Dean chuckled at himself; he could tell that Paul liked a good dirty fuck, but what really got a guy like him off was lovemaking. Feeling a connection with his sexual partner.

        It worked. His eyes wide with disbelief and overwhelming pleasure, Paul came inside Dean. "Uhhhhhh AHHHH!" He closed his eyes, shuddering all over, his hand squeezing Dean's cock a little harder as he pumped it even faster in reaction to his orgasm. Every time Paul opened his eyes, Dean locked eyes with him - he was there for every whimper and moan and shrill breath that came from Paul's mouth.

        But soon, Dean lost his edge and cried out himself. That extra, rough texture had done him in much quicker than usual. "Ahh, shit, Paul!" His cock spasmed, and he splattered both his chest and Paul's with cum. Head thrown back again, Dean also made sounds that came from the base of his loss of control, where he gave all his power over to the ecstasy Paul provided.

        Paul's motions came to a slow stop. They laid there tangled in one another and panted for half a minute. Paul finally rolled off of Dean, pulling out and removing the condom. Dean was very glad they'd used that. This guy looked so clean... it wasn't that Dean had anything, because he was disease free, but he still feared he might dirty Paul somehow if they hadn't used the condom. He wanted to corrupt Paul temporarily, not taint him for good.

        The fact that Dean had cum all over both of them didn't seem to bother Paul; in fact, he smiled at it, but did suggest, "You wanna get cleaned up?"

        From the moment they stepped into the shower until he gave Paul the first kiss, Dean could not stop chuckling over all of Paul's haircare products laid out on the window shelf. "Metrosexual," he teased.

        Paul rolled his eyes with good humor. "I like to take care of my hair, is all."

        "Vanity, thy name is Paul." He helped him close the shower curtain around them. "But I like it. It's cute."

        As they backed under the warm spray, Dean cradled Paul's face in his hands again and kissed him without reserve. It was Paul's softer qualities that brought out the natural protector in Dean, and the way he was plagued by visions he couldn't control, just like Sam... Dean had a pang of regret just then, remembering his missing brother. Holding Paul's gentle face brought back fuzzy, ancient memories of holding his baby brother to his little pajama clad chest as he ran for both their lives. Touching Paul was comforting, almost like Sam was still with him, instead of missing. Dean's eyes took on a sad cast before he resumed kissing Paul. Sex had always been one of the ways Dean unwound, a way he comforted himself, a way to block out the world.

        For Paul's part, although he rarely talked about it, he was just plain starved for affection. Growing up in an orphanage had been responsible for that. No amount of cuddling with other kids after lights out and the occasional hug from Poppi or one of the nuns could make up for all he had missed when his mother died. It was the reason he was so clingy and jealous in relationships. It was the reason he now did little to discourage Dean from prolonging the shower with a little petting. The affection felt so good; Paul drank it all in, not realizing for a while that he had unconsciously connected to Dean empathically, and was feeding off his emotions.

        Though Paul greatly enjoyed the kissing, the light washing they gave each other, and the warm touches, it was a lost cause. Some people found a warm shower just what they needed to get sexually aroused - Paul was just the opposite. Warm water, cold water, it all just kept him flaccid. He was one of those people who couldn't get anything going in a pool. Maybe it was the lack of traction. But, as he found out, Dean was in the other portion of the population.

        While he watched Dean's cock rise again, Paul also felt it through the link. Still, his own cock refused to respond. That was okay. Paul was happy with the things he could glean off Dean, the fact that Dean felt protective over him because of all he'd seen of Paul's life so far, the love he felt for his baby brother, the raw lust mixed with a strange caring for Paul (after all, they'd just met) - it all came through as an intensely pleasant warmth for him to wade through. He supposed their shared need for comfort had a lot to do with the emotions coming off Dean right now. Either way, it had gotten Dean hard again, and he couldn't stop kissing and kissing Paul. What was it about this guy, anyway?

        Paul had to be the one to move Dean away, whispering, "Okay, okay, stop stop stop." Why'd he have to whisper like that, that would never make Dean want to stop! "The water's going cold, I want to get out. Come 'ere." Paul gripped Dean's cock all of a sudden and began to stroke it. Dean moaned softly with surprise and appreciation. He reached down, but found Paul hanging loose, and looked at him, bewildered. "I can't get hard in water," Paul shrugged. That satisfied Dean; some people were like that. Oh well, at least he'd get some. Back to kissing while Paul jerked him off.

        Soon after, the two men were satisfied (Dean sexually, Paul emotionally), clean, and dried off. Both put on only underwear because they knew they were going to sleep. Dean rewrapped Paul's hands with fresh, dry bandages. They got into Paul's bed; something about the atmosphere between them made Dean chatty. He put both arms under his pillow and alternated between studying the ceiling and occasionally glancing at Paul. Paul was rubbing at the beads of his rosary. "You're Catholic?"

        "Yeah." Damn scratches would never come off.

        "I'm sorry."

        The joke caught Paul off guard; he snickered and rolled his eyes. "Very funny."

        "Where does our little tryst fall into your religion?" asked Dean.

        "Oh, you want to ask the hard questions now?"

        "Sorry, I'm just curious how you reconcile it all," Dean said with a wicked smile.

        Paul shrugged. "We're all sinners, Dean. It's how you deal with it that makes all the difference."

        Dean could be a bit too morbidly fascinated with people like Paul, those who were devoutly religious, but also did things that were clearly against their religion. Most of them seemed to be hypocrites to Dean, but Paul was different, not as judgmental as what Dean was used to. "Will you go to confession?"

        His eyebrows rising, Paul replied, "Yeah. Just not to Father Calero."

        "Who's he?" Dean asked.

        "A priest I grew up with in the orphanage. He's always been like a father to me."

        Dean would have teased him about not wanting to confess his tryst to his father figure, but he was stuck on one word. "You grew up in an _orphanage_?"

        "Yes."

        "Where'd your parents go?"

        Paul had to grin, though he hid it behind his hand, at the way Dean had phrased that question. "My father didn't seem to want to have anything to do with me. I don't even know his name. Father Calero said my mother refused to reveal who he was because she thought my father would be a bad influence for me. I think, in ways, that she was a little afraid of my dad." Paul rested a hand across his forehead and gazed up at the ceiling that Dean found so interesting. "She said he lived very far away from us, and that was a good thing. So it was just me and mom against the world. No brothers or sisters. Then she died."

        Dean felt kind of bad for him; at least he had Dad and Sammy. "How?"

        "Cancer. When I was four. Just a week from my fifth birthday." Paul's eyes gazed far off, as if he saw the past before him instead of the ceiling of his bedroom.

        Dean looked at him in disbelief. "I was four too."

        That got Paul's attention. "What?"

        "I said, I was four too. When my mom was killed." Dean gazed up at the ceiling again. "There was an intruder in our house, and... if he'd been just a burglar, it would have been better." Dean blew out a heavy breath. "But he was some kind of demon. He did something _horrible_ to my mom." The pain and anguish he still felt over this incident showed plainly in his eyes. Now it was Paul's turn to feel bad for him. "My dad found her with a bloody stomach, like she'd been gutted or something."

        Paul flinched. "That's awful."

        "You'd think maybe it was your run-of-the-mill serial killing, except for the fact that she was on the ceiling at the time that Dad found her." Dean reached up, as if trying to touch his mother. Paul furrowed his brow in stunned confusion. "Then my mom suddenly burst into flame." He slowly lowered his arm. "Kinda tipped Dad off to the fact that it wasn't a normal killing."

        "And that's what started the hunting," Paul stated more than asked.

        "Yeah." Finally turning his head from the phantoms of memory above him, Dean looked at Paul. "You believe me?"

        "Of course."

        Dean just smiled, a small, closed-mouth smile just for Paul. "That's another thing we have in common. Both four, both lost our moms."

        Not sure what to say, Paul just made a, "Hm," sound. He was starting to drift off, but apparently, Dean wasn't done.

        "When did you discover you could see the dead?" he asked.

        Paul opened one eye, looked at Dean, and opened the other. "Um, when Tommy died, I saw him at his funeral, standing in the doorway of the church. Keel thinks there could have been incidents before that, but I just didn't recognize them for what they were. That's most likely true. Like, when I was a kid, there was this couple who kept coming around the orphanage, making noise about adopting me. But eventually, they just stopped coming. It never occurred to me back then that I didn't see them talk to anyone else, ever, except me. Then late last year, they came back. I was at St. Jerome's spending time with some of the kids and the couple showed up there. They didn't look any different than they had when I was young."

        Dean's eyes were wide as he added, "And no one else could see them."

        "You guessed it."

        "Did they still want to adopt you?" he joked.

        Paul shrugged with a big grin. " _Yes_. They reacted to me as if they still saw me as a child."

        "Whoa. Weird," Dean commented. "So you were a medium even back then."

        Nodding, he continued, "We investigated this doctor once. He had a possessed patient, and his daughter helped us every step of the way. But Keel and Evelyn never saw her. I had no idea she was _dead_. She looked and felt completely real to me." Paul allowed himself a brief smile as he thought of sweet, beautiful Raina. He wondered aloud, "The only thing I can't understand is why Tommy came back. He said I wasn't going to see him anymore."

        "I don't know, man, but I'd be careful," Dean warned. "I don't trust healers."

        They both fell silent, thinking, and starting to doze off. Paul watched Dean for a minute, grateful that they had encountered each other, because the man's touch had brought him back from the brink. His firm, strong touch. Maybe now that he'd had his release, he could deal with what had happened in Mountaineer.

        Paul noticed that Dean was now looking back at him sleepily, his brow furrowed. "You know... you look a lot like this guy I knew in high school. Back when we lived in Southern California for a year. One of the time periods we weren't totally nomadic, living out of a car. You might be surprised how many demons you can kill just standing in one place in Cali. Earthquakes and Hollywood stir 'em up. That and there was a Hellmouth there. And a huge Chaos cult." Dean yawned like a mighty canyon.

        Chucking lightly, Paul said, "A Hellmouth? What's that?"

        "Mouth to Hell."

        "Oh. I should have known." He wasn't even going to allow himself to think about that one. A mouth to Hell on Earth?! "Go to sleep."

        "Do you think we'll hear from Tommy in the morning?"

        "Yes."

        "If the phone rings, will you wake up? 'Cause I kinda sleep like a rock, especially after sex," Dean said.

        "Yeah, I'll wake up. Keel's always calling me at the crack of dawn with some theory or another, and it _always_ wakes me up," Paul replied with a bit of annoyance in his voice at the memory of many early mornings spent listening to Keel blab.

        "Dude, someone calls me at the asscrack of dawn, that's the last call they ever make. Only two people are allowed to wake me up that early."

        Paul suddenly started chuckling. "Why are you concerned about that anyway? You think Tommy's going to _call_ me?"

        "No, but that guy could call again. The guy who saw Sammy hitchhiking." He pointed to his cell phone on the bedside table. "If I don't wake up, you answer it."

        "Okay."

        Dean went silent long enough for Paul to think he had fallen asleep, until he suddenly started talking again, and nearly startled Paul right out of bed. "You asleep?"

        "No," Paul replied sharply.

        "Sorry, I had another question." He stopped and cleared his throat. "You can see all kinds of ghosts, right?"

        "That's been established."

        "Okay, sure." Dean ached to just get the words out of his mouth. "Do you see anyone around me?"

        Ah, the question Paul got from every person eventually, once they found out he could see the dead. He didn't mind so much as long as they understood he couldn't command any particular dead person to speak; he could only talk to those who came to him. "Hmm." He scanned the area around Dean, the bed, the space behind him, and the rest of the room, and finally spotted something. "There's a floating patch of flame over there by the chair." Paul suddenly heard Tommy's voice in his head again, feeding him information that he wouldn't have known otherwise. "It's... it's, ah, your mother. She's trying to regain her energy, the energy she expended fighting off a malevolent spirit. She's hoping to use the power that killed her to her advantage, to become a fire elemental." He said all this as gently as he could because he could imagine that to hear such things about someone you loved was overwhelming, even for someone as tough as Dean. "It may be her only choice, since she was weakened by the attack that killed her, and the fight with this evil spirit."

        Dean's eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "Really? She's working to come back?"

        Paul smiled warmly, trying to be comforting. He ran the backs of his fingers over Dean's cheek. "Yeah. In a new form."

        Dean smiled too. "Then I'll probably get to see her again."

        "I bet you will." Paul felt a little like he had that night in Shadow Valley, Virginia, when those kids asked him what Heaven was like and he told them, among other things, that it was full of cotton candy houses with clowns living in them. How the heck was he supposed to know the answers to these questions? Everything he'd just said had been fed to him by Tommy. But he hated to disappoint people when they desperately needed answers. Paul said another thing he didn't totally feel. "You can trust my instincts about spiritual matters. I was almost a priest. Now go to sleep."

        Feeling all warm inside, Dean settled into the pillow, but raised his head again just a few seconds later. "You were almost a priest?!"

  
*****

  
        The sun had been up for an hour when someone stirred in Paul's apartment. It wasn't him or Dean, though, as they were still sleeping. A crystal paperweight holding down some bills on top of Paul's dresser suddenly flew through the air and thumped against the wall over Paul's head. He flinched when the paperweight rolled down his pillow and came to rest against his cheek. Within seconds, several empty hangers lifted off the closet rod and flung themselves at the bed, spreading all over the two men and making a loud racket.

        Paul came awake with a start. "Guh!"

        Dean stirred, beginning to awaken. "Whuzadeal?" he murmured.

        Rubbing one eye, Paul looked at the closet. There was Mrs. Keel, breathing hard and looking angry, her hair mussed, her make-up smudged and run. "Mrs. Keel? What's the matter?"

        She snatched up another hanger. Paul had a flashback of that scandalous movie about Joan Crawford. "Why wasn't I ever enough?" Vivian Keel shook the hanger with a trembling hand.

        "What?"

        "Paul, who ya talkin' to? Mrs. Keel?" Dean asked, still barely awake.

        Vivian shrieked, "Why wasn't I ever enough?!" She threw the hanger at Paul. It winged him in the side of the head.

        The movement was enough to get Dean's head off the pillow. "What was that?!"

        "Mrs. Keel, calm down!" Paul started to sit up.

        She grabbed a jar of pennies off the dresser and flung it at them. The jar clonked Paul a good one in the forehead. He covered it with his hands and moaned in pain.

        "Hey!" Dean barked. He could see no assailant, but Paul had said "Mrs. Keel" twice. The ghost must be back. She was trying to hurt Paul, for some reason. That kid, Tommy, had said to be wary of her, hadn't he? Dean jumped up and started going through his bag.

        "What was that for?!" Paul yelled.

        "Like you don't know! You men are all alike." She looked at Dean with critical eyes and scoffed. "Always a wandering eye. Always thinking with your lowest parts. You tell me, why wasn't I enough?! Didn't I keep up a good appearance?" Vivian sunk her hands into her hair and yanked. "Didn't I take care of the children and keep up the house? Still, he blamed me. He was never there, always at the hospital or away at a seminar, and it was _my_ fault? That must've been convenient. I did everything he wanted. Even the _disgusting_ things in bed."

        Vivian eyed a heavy pencil holder made of pewter sitting on top of the chest of drawers, just barely touching it so it inched along the wooden surface. "Still, he had a whole album full of whores."

        Dean watched that pencil holder slide a few centimeters at a time across the chest; that told him where she was. He pulled the sawed-off shotgun from his bag. "Don't even think about it, bitch."

        "Dean, what are you doing?!" Paul said, shocked. "You're going to _shoot_ a ghost?!"

        "Just trust me." The gun was full of rock salt rounds. He aimed it at where he thought Mrs. Keel was, but unfortunately, Dean had her placed on the left side of the dresser, when she was on the right. She could have reached the pencil holder from either side, so it was an easy mistake.

        Vivian laughed at him mockingly. "How can you shoot someone who's already dead, you foul-mouthed hooligan?" She picked up the pencil holder.

        "Wait Dean, wrong - " It all happened too fast for Paul to properly warn Dean that he was aiming at the wrong side of the dresser.

        Dean saw the object move, and put up his arm to block the pencil holder as it was launched in the air - as Vivian threw it. He squeezed off a round at the space on the left side of the dresser, intending to repel Mrs. Keel's ghost, but of course, he missed her. The fact that she only allowed herself to be seen by Paul was a hindrance. Paul flinched at the sound of the gunshot. Because Dean's round didn't hit her, Vivian was free to unleash the abilities she'd gained as a ghost. She moved with supernatural speed across the room. The rushing created a wind so strong it overwhelmed Dean. He was caught off guard, and subsequently, was unable to block the heavy pencil holder. It bounced off his eyebrow, scratching him, bringing blood. Dean fell back into the chair near the bed with a groan.

        "Mrs. Keel, stop it!" Paul pleaded. He started to crawl off the bed.

        Vivian leaned over the chair, eye to eye with Dean. "Boo." She narrowed her eyes at him. "Don't you ever talk to my daughter like that again."

        "Paul, where is she?" Dean asked, since he couldn't even see the woman when she was inches from his face.

        "She's - "

        Vivian turned a furious eye on Paul, and suddenly, she was ghost-rushing him. He was thrown back on the bed with her on top of him. Paul, simply not knowing what to do, stared up at her raging face and gaped helplessly while she repeatedly slammed her hand into the mattress next to his head.

        "My greatest shame! Bas' little seeeecret!" she screeched into his face. "Nothing but a thorn in my side!" Vivian had begun to weep. "Why, why wasn't I enough!"

        Dean knew without a doubt where she was this time. He could see the mattress caving in under her weight, could see the imprint of her invisible palm in the sheets as she smacked the bed over and over. He got on one knee, aimed, and shot a rock salt round into Vivian Keel.

        She squeezed her eyes shut and screamed as the projectile ripped through her. The scream faded as Vivian seemed to be torn apart on a molecular level, simply dissolving. Paul cringed violently, and slowly realized that it was over, that she was gone. "Dean... how did you do that?"

        He stood up, showing him the gun. "It's loaded with rounds of rock salt. Salt is a natural spirit deterrent." He grinned. "Worked pretty well, huh? That is one pissed off bitch. Tell me something - why hasn't your boss taught you how to repel ghosts from your apartment with salt circles?"

        Before Paul could answer, someone began knocking frantically at his front door. Dean looked at him wide-eyed. "That could be about Sam! Let's get it."

        "No, Dean." He pointed to his eyebrow. "You're bleeding."

        A muffled voice came through the door. "Paul, Paul, are you okay?"

        "It's just my neighbor, Mrs. Bongiovi. Stay here." Paul called to the door as he threw on some jeans. "I'm fine, Mrs. Bongiovi. I'm coming! Give me a minute; I'm not decent!"

        Dean had to grin at the ways that comment could be taken out of context. While Paul got the door, Dean retrieved a tissue to put to his eyebrow, and stood near the bedroom door to eavesdrop.

        "Paul, are you alright?" Mrs. Bongiovi asked warmly, touching his face. "I heard gunshots."

        "Oh, I'm sorry. I had my TV up too loud. I was watching an action movie."

        "The shots, they were so loud!" She seemed to accept his explanation, though. "Are you sure you're alright? Your forehead is all red here, and your hands...!"

        "Oh, you know me. Always bumping into doors. Clumsy," Paul tried to explain, though it was all lies. He held up his bandaged hands. "This happened when I forgot the iron was on. Just grabbed it in both hands. Can you believe it?"

        "Agh, Paul, you need a nice girl to look after you. Did you enjoy the lasagna I brought?"

        "Yes, it was delicious, Mrs. Bongiovi."

        "Did your friend Keel enjoy it?" she asked.

        "You should have seen how much he ate," Paul laughed.

        Boring. _Blah blah blah_ , Dean thought. He checked; the bleeding had stopped. Just a shallow scratch. This Paul guy sure was chummy with his neighbor. Every older person seemed to be a mother or father figure to him. Mrs. Bongiovi was mommying the hell out of Paul, and he just seemed to wallow in it. Dean didn't need another mother. He had one, and she died, and he would rather live with her memory than replace her.

        He decided to speed things along; Dean needed this message to come in so he could find Sam. He put on his jeans and stepped out into the living room.

        "You have a friend visiting?"

        Paul seemed surprised at the question, then realized Dean had cleaned up his face and come into the room. "Yes, this is Dean."

        "Oh, he is a handsome one. I've never seen you here before." She had always wondered about Paul. Such a nice boy, but very pretty.

        Dean put on his best charming smile. "Thank you, ma'am." He made no comment about her second statement, because it was just nosy fishing for gossip. The black-haired Italian woman seemed nice, though. "Paul, we've got that thing we need to do..."

        "Uh, right. Just let me get Mrs. Bongiovi's casserole dish. I washed it and everything." Paul headed for the kitchen.

        "You are such a good boy." While he was gone, she smiled at Dean, looking like she had more to say. "You are a new friend of Paul's?"

        "You could say that. Haven't known him long."

        "Do you care about his safety?" she asked quietly.

        That was an odd question. What was even stranger was the answer, given that Dean barely knew Paul. "Yes."

        "Will you watch out for him when you're with him, then?" Mrs. Bongiovi leaned forward and said in a hushed voice, "Lui colloqui a sè."

        "Huh?"

        Like many people whose first language was not English, she slipped into her native language when saying something that could be considered gossip. "Sometimes he talks to himself in here. My husband and I can hear him through the walls. I think he is lonely."

        Paul wasn't talking to himself. He was speaking to ghosts. But of course, Dean couldn't tell her that.

        "What really worries me is what happens at night, much too often. Cammina nel suo sonno," she whispered, then remembered that he did not seem to know Italian. "Oh, I'm sorry, it is so natural for me."

        Dean blinked several times; it was a fidgety motion out of concern. "What does he do at night, Mrs. Bongiovi?"

        "He sleepwalks," she said at a whisper.

        Troubled, he looked for clarification. "Paul leaves his apartment when he does this?"

        "Yes, sometimes. We try to direct him back into his bed, but we don't always hear him. I've found him out here in the hall more than once. I'm afraid he's going to fall down the stairs. His friend Evelyn was very concerned, but Mr. Keel... I don't know about him sometimes. He and Paul travel a lot and they stay in the same hotel room, Paul told me, so I thought he should know so he could look out for Paul. Hotels have stairs, and elevator shafts, and are often located near busy highways. It scares me," Mrs. Bongiovi fretted with a sigh. "But Mr. Keel... he almost seemed to want it to continue. Told me to write down anything that Paul said while he was out walking in his sleep. Very strange, don't you think? Why does he want to know such things? You'll look after Paul when you are sleeping over, won't you?"

        Dean wasn't staying in Boston forever... how could he look after him? "I'll do what I can."

        They both shut their mouths when Paul reentered the room with the empty, clean casserole dish. "Here you go."

        "Thank you." She gave Dean a meaningful look and left.

        Paul barely had the door locked when his apartment phone began to ring. Dean looked desperate for him to answer it. Checking the caller ID, Paul shook his head. "It's just Keel." He considered not answering.

        Obviously disappointed, Dean put his hands in his pockets and trudged into the bedroom to finish dressing.

        Paul sighed and picked up the phone. "Hello."

        "Paul. Are you alright?"

        He instantly thought about Vivian Keel and the things she'd said during her tantrum. Was the woman that unhinged in life? Is that what Keel had to grow up with? A part of him wanted to be sympathetic, but the other part still couldn't deal with Keel and his methods. "I'm okay."

        "I heard quite a bit of noise in your apartment before I left, sounded like you were tearing up the place. Are you sure you're okay?" Alva asked.

        "Well, you try being a human bug light and see if it doesn't make you a little crazy now and then," Paul said sarcastically.

        Dean couldn't help himself; he eavesdropped again on Paul's end of the conversation while getting dressed. He grinned to himself at the joke.

        "I understand your anxiety, Paul," Alva said. "I just wanted to make sure you didn't hurt yourself."

        "I did, as usual, but it's alright. My hands are wrapped up."

        "Your hands?"

        "Yeah. I punched the hell out of my coffee table."

        Paul couldn't see him, but Alva visibly winced. "Didn't break any bones, I hope."

        "No, it doesn't seem so." There was an uncomfortable pause. "Is that all?"

        Alva cleared his throat. "Why do you sound angry at me?"

        Good, that was the exact question Paul needed to launch into the tirade he'd been waiting for since he recovered these memories. "I just don't understand how you do it, Keel. How do you make life and death decisions and live with yourself when innocent people die because you did nothing to save them?"

        Whoa, what was _that_ all about, Dean wondered. He tried to stay quiet so he could hear better.

        Alva sighed. "Who did I kill now?"

        Sarcasm wasn't exactly what Paul wanted to hear at that moment. He snapped, "The Mothman told you that Danielle Franklin would come to a bad end years before she was murdered. Why didn't you warn her? You knew she was in danger."

        Alva put a hand over his eyes and almost laughed, but verbalizing anything that sounded like amusement would be misinterpreted, with the way Paul felt, so he held it back. "Paul, be reasonable. What was I supposed to tell the woman? 'Hello, Mrs. Franklin, will you tell me about your hemography experience, and by the way, a giant moth said you might come to a bad end. His comment was very vague, could have meant several different things, but just thought you'd like to know about it.' Something like that?"

        Not allowing the sarcasm to faze him, Paul said, "When Chad Goodwell started killing the 'God is Nowhere' people, you should have said something about it. That should have been a giant red flag that this is what the Mothman meant! We could have warned her, and she could have gone into hiding like Mr. Webster."

        "For all the good it did him."

        In the bedroom, Dean was reeling from what he'd heard. Sounded like a pretty major case these people had been involved in. Some pretty intense shit, a lot like what he and Sam got into all the time. The Mothman had predicted some woman's death? Why did that term 'God is Nowhere' sound so familiar?

        Alva continued, "Paul, you have to accept that sometimes, good is not going to win out. You'll just make yourself crazy, and there isn't enough furniture in your apartment to beat up for all the times we're going to lose. In this case, evil was going to triumph until Chad Goodwell was caught - he was always one step ahead of us. You have to accept that no matter how hard we try, we can't save everyone. How many times do we need to discuss this?

        "Even if Mrs. Franklin had known the danger, there's no guarantee that would have saved her life. The things we deal with would seem insane to the untrained eye. Sometimes, we have to lie. Sometimes, we tell the truth. Other times, we can do nothing but sit back and let a thing run its course."

        "But I can't do that, Keel. I'm not like you. I need to be able to help."

        "Do you think I don't feel guilty?" Alva asked. "Do you think I don't regret when my decisions go wrong? You can't let it eat you alive, Paul, or you'll be no good to anyone. When one deals so closely with death and its aftereffects, there are bound to be impossible decisions to make. Sometimes, they are the wrong ones. But even if I had put Danielle Franklin on her guard, she still probably would have died. After all, Chad was given the information to find Mr. Webster from his supernatural contacts; do you think Mrs. Franklin could have hidden from that? You can't over think it, Paul. You'll wind up destroying coffee tables in a rubber room."

        Paul let out a long sigh. "I got her on the phone, Keel. I had her. Danielle Franklin, still alive. Then the police had to go and muck it all up."

        Dean let out a quiet little scoff; the police were _always_ mucking it up.

        "Don't beat yourself up about it anymore. Life is full of those kinds of disappointments. Close, but yet so far. One of the bitterest things we experience in life. Let it go," Alva coaxed.

        Sighing again, Paul replied, "I'll try." He paused, thinking. "Keel, I think I need help on a case I stumbled upon."

        "What kind of case?"

        "Missing person."

        Dean knew he was talking about Sam. He listened, all of his attention on what he could hear.

        "Why is that our kind of case?" Alva asked.

        "Because _Tommy_ has been feeding me information about it."

        There was a meaningful pause on Alva's end. "That's amazing. He's talking to you again?"

        "Yeah. Can you come over?"

        "I've got that meeting with Mr. Yamashita in an hour. About the copy of the _Book of Revolution_ we're trying to acquire. That's an ancient, rare book. It's very important."

        "I know. You have to keep that appointment," Paul agreed.

        "I'll come over right after. In the meantime, I'll send Evie over," said Alva.

        "Good. Tell her to bring the laptop. And, uh, Keel?" He looked toward the bedroom. "We need to try to stop assuming that every person we deal with doesn't believe in the paranormal. There are believers out there. Maybe we should give them the benefit of the doubt."

        "I'll attempt to do that as long as you promise to stop biting my head off so much." Alva's tone was a bit playful, though he meant it.

        Paul had to grin. "Stop making it so tasty and I will."

        Chuckling, Alva said, "See you in a few hours," and hung up.

        Dean, hearing Paul put the phone in the cradle, emerged from the bedroom. "Hey, uh, I heard a little of that. Sorry. What is 'God is Nowhere'? The phrase is familiar. I think my dad wrote about it in his journal."

        Paul's face drained of color. "Let me see it. Do you have it with you?"

        "Always." Dean pulled the journal from an inside pocket of his jacket. He put it on Paul's dining room table and began to flip through it. "You okay? You look freaked. Sit down."

        Paul did, folding his hands in front of his mouth while he waited, hardly breathing, for Dean to find the passage. He located it and showed Paul the page. "There. 'God is Nowhere.' My dad chronicled all the evil and bizarre things he's dealt with in this journal. Looks like he was keeping a record of all the people who saw this message written in blood. It's a list of six people. It doesn't seem he knew much more about it than that."

        Paul exhaled with relief. "He was just keeping a case file."

        "Yeah. What's this all about, Paul? What's the big deal about this message written in blood? I've seen that a bunch of times," Dean said with a shrug.

        "I don't think you understand. This is hemography. The messages wrote themselves."

        It dawned on him just what Paul meant. Dean's face took on an expression of confoundment. " _Dude_."

        "Yeah. Dude. People hurt themselves, they bled, the blood flowed or was soaked into towels or bandages, and later, sometimes very quickly, people looked at those puddles of blood or soaked fabrics, and saw that the blood had formed words," Paul explained. "All of these people on the list saw the message 'God is _Nowhere_.' The night I was hit by the train, and Tommy saved me, my blood flowed out onto a piece of metal from my car. It spelled, 'God is _Now Here_.'"

        "The message was different."

        "Yes. I thought I was the only one who saw the words that way. Then came Chad Goodwell." Paul glanced at John Winchester's journal to see if he had any record of Chad. He didn't. There was nothing there about Paul, either. "He was a kid who - "

        Someone knocked at Paul's door.

        "Uh... this place is Grand Central Station this morning. Hold that thought. That's probably Evie." Paul got the door.

        "Hey Paul, Alva called me and said you needed help tracking someone down." Evie stepped inside. "I was only a few blocks away, taking Matty to school."

        "Thought you got here awfully fast," Paul laughed.

        Evie glanced over at the table area, noticing someone was there. The smile dropped from her face. It was replaced by a look of pure shock and panic.

        Any hint of welcome for the gorgeous Latina babe faded from Dean's person at that look. What the fuck? He tensed up, ready for fight or flight.

        "Evie, this is - " Paul noticed her expression. "Evie? What's the matter?"

        "Paul I need to talk to you in the hall for a moment," she blurted, almost completely running the words together, and dragged him by the arm out the still-open door, closing it behind them.

        Something was up. Dean closed the journal, pocketed it, and reached behind his back to the waistband of his jeans to make sure his Glock was there, although he knew it was. The chick had the hair on the back of his neck standing on end, after the way she'd looked at him. Dean went to the door and put his ear to it.

        Paul was laughing awkwardly. "What's up, Evie? Why the cloak and dagger routine?"

        Evie looked like she was about to blow her top at a very bad child. She pointed at his front door. "Paul, what is _Dean Winchester_ doing in your apartment?!"  



	3. Methods

A **Miracles/Supernatural** Cross-over Fanfic  
by Laurel (Sailorhathor)

 **Chapters:** 3 of 5  
 **Rating:** Adult17+  
 **Word Count:** 40,864 total; 6,329 this chapter

 **Part III: Methods**

        Now it was Paul's turn to look shocked. "How did you know his name?"

        "'How did you know his name?'" Evie imitated in a funny, mocking voice. "I can't believe you're being so casual about this. Paul, Alva has a _really_ thick file on Dean Winchester's entire family. I just updated it last week. Gave me the most annoying headache. There are pictures of all of them in the file. Sam Winchester rejoined the fold late last year and they've been really active since. He told you his real name?"

        Paul sheepishly replied, "Sort of."

        "Uh huh," Evie said knowingly. "You can't count that guy's aliases on both hands. John Bonham, James Hetfield, Kevin Dubrow, Bruce Dickinson - "

        Paul started to laugh. "That's really clever."

        Evie smacked his arm. "Would you get serious? His file is labeled 'Heavily Armed and Dangerous,' Paul! _What_ is he _doing here_?!"

        Dean had to grin; his reputation preceded him. But how did this Keel guy know so much about his family, goddamn it? He had _pictures_?! Dean knew he had to keep a rein on his anger for now, or he'd never find these things out. And it was important that he know how Keel could get so much information on the Winchester family to create a "really thick file."

        Paul laughed again. "Oh Evie, you're overreacting. Dean's a..." He was about to say, "pussycat," but then he recalled the way Dean suddenly turned mean and grabbed his shirt threateningly, the rock salt gun, and the general aggression with which he approached life. "...decent guy," he finally finished. "He wouldn't hurt us."

        "Oh?" Crossing her arms, Evie raised an eyebrow and leaned in closer. "Then why is it that he's suspected of _murder_ out of St. Louis, where he's listed as _deceased_?"

        Paul's eyes went their widest in reaction, and he gaped in surprise, eventually able to croak, "What?!"

        This is when Dean opened the door, feeling his time to step in was now or never. "That wasn't me," he tried to explain.

        Paul and Evie both took a wary step back.

        Dean immediately continued in a discreet tone of voice, "That was a shapeshifter. It made itself look like me to fool my brother. I shot and killed it. How else could I be dead in St. Louis and here with you now?"

        Paul reached out to poke Dean's chest. "You see him too, Evie?" Paul asked, needing her reassurance that he had not just spent the night with a dead man.

        Rolling his eyes, Dean smacked Paul's hand down. "I am not a ghost. It was the shapeshifter!" he said in frustration.

        "Alright, Mr. Winchester, let's say I accept your explanation. Tell me, what are you doing here in Paul's apartment, and what happened to his hands?" Evie demanded to know.

        Paul grew embarrassed at the idea that his sex life could be discussed here, with Evie, of all people. "Uh, let's go inside."

        "I'm not sure that's such a good idea, Paul," Evie said. "It could be dangerous to be alone with him."

        Dean openly showed more frustration, nearly stomping his feet. "It was the shapeshifter," he said through gritted teeth.

        For his own part, Paul just got sarcastic. "Is it okay with you if I go inside my own apartment and at least put on a shirt? Dean is not going to hurt us." He held up one of his hands, and continued so softly he was almost whispering, "I did this to myself."

        Evie, looking troubled over that revelation, finally relented and entered the apartment. She rarely took her eyes off Dean. Once the door was closed, Paul began to explain his injuries. "After Keel brought me home last night, I was pretty upset, as you can imagine. I was so angry at this creature for thinking it could use me for whatever whim came into its head that I needed to take my anger out on something. The coffee table got the worst of it." He pointed at the busted table with the bloody knuckle prints on one corner. "I only wish it could have been the Mothman."

        "Did it at least make you feel better?" Evie asked, her eyes troubled and sympathetic for him.

        Paul, scoffing and laughing a little, replied, "Not really, no, that's why I went out to the bar where I ran into Dean. If I couldn't beat my personal BS out of me, maybe I could drink to forget it." He laughed lightly again, scratching absently at one eyebrow. "I think Dean had a similar idea."

        "I just needed a beer to unwind," Dean amended. "No drunkie for me until Sam is safe."

        "Dean and I started talking, and that's when Tommy showed up."

        Astounded, Evie repeated the boy's name. "Tommy? But you said he moved on."

        "I believe he did, Evie. Tommy looked a lot better, not all sick and pale. But he's come back for some reason. Maybe just to help with this. Anyway, that's how Dean and I met." Paul gestured in Dean's direction.

        Still wary of him, Evie wondered to herself if this whole thing was a setup, if Dean had anything to do with Tommy's return. The Winchesters knew a great deal about all forms of Magick, including Black - maybe Dean was using Tommy to manipulate Paul somehow. Evie asked, "The missing person we're all looking for... it's your brother, Sam?"

        Dean nodded.

        Even if he had done something to bring Tommy's spirit back, it seemed like he did it for good reasons, if it was to find his brother. Still... "What happened to him?"

        Dean repeated the whole story for her. "...Sam doesn't even have any shoes on. And he didn't take his cell phone. That's really weird for him. Something really wrong happened. We gotta find him. I'll follow any lead you've got."

        "Sounds like it, if you'll drive to Boston on a phone call from a stranger," Evie remarked.

        "Babe, I had _nothing_ until I got that call. It worked." He grinned at Paul. "Tommy told him we'd receive word that would help us locate Sammy."

        Evie could plainly see the love Dean felt for his brother written all over his face, but it was so hard to let go of the wary mother hen stance she'd adopted when she realized who he was. Perhaps a little more interrogation would settle her mind. "I'm sorry, but this whole thing still seems a little too engineered. Like someone planned it all out and we're just players in the drama. I'm not going to feel better about your presence here, Mr. Winchester, until I get a few more questions answered."

        "Hey, as long as you're going to be a smarmy bitch to me, you might as well call me Dean."

        Paul glared at him with disapproval. "Dean... nuh uh."

        "Sorry," Dean said. Then he added to Evie, "I'm sorry, your Smarminess."

        Evie just smiled back icily. "Alright, _Dean_ , tell me this... if everything here's on the up and up, then why do you and Paul have matching head injuries?" She pointed to her forehead. "'Cause I'm picturing a headbutt sometime in the last few hours."

        Paul looked as if he didn't want to answer that question, but Dean just laughed. "Yeah, sure, because mine's an actual scratch, and Paul's got such a sharp forehead."

        "Evie..." Paul sighed. "I'm not sure I wanted to tell anyone about this yet. Can you just trust me when I say that it's totally unrelated to Dean and that he didn't do it?"

        Her response was immediate. "Heck no."

        Although the chick had been riding his ass, Dean couldn't help but chuckle at that. She had spunk.

        "You're no help," Paul said to him. With another sigh, he started to explain. "Alright, you want to know what else has been going on in the land of Paul? Yesterday, the ghost of _Keel's mother_ showed up in my apartment. Vivian Keel."

        Gaping in shock, Evie exclaimed, "Are you serious?"

        "Definitely. This morning, Dean and I were awakened by Mrs. Keel having a fit in my bedroom. She was throwing things all over." He gestured to the forming bruise on his forehead. "This was done by a jar of pennies."

        Dean touched his eyebrow. "Heavy pencil holder made of metal."

        " _Oh_." Evie had no idea how to deal with this; could they even tell Alva? How would it make her feel if it had been her dead father throwing the tantrum in Paul's bedroom? _Jesus_. "Was it at all clear why she was freaking out?"

        "This is the worst part. Most of the things she said just didn't make sense. The woman sounded like a lunatic," Paul said with a cringe.

        "Can you recall any of it?"

        "She kept saying 'why wasn't I enough?'. Mrs. Keel seemed to be talking about her husband, and how he didn't appreciate all the things she did for him and 'the children.' She was pretty upset with men in general, which I guess is why Dean and I got the worst of it. Also said something about doing disgusting things in the bedroom for her husband's sake, and how that wasn't enough for him either. He had 'an album full of whores,' whatever that means." Paul shrugged.

        "He cheated," Evie and Dean said together, then glared at each other. Matters of romance were something they both knew a great deal about, although from different perspectives.

        Dean allowed Evie to continue. "As I was saying, Dr. Keel cheated. Think about what she said, Paul. Why wasn't she enough? Why did he turn to other women?"

        "So why take it out on me?" Paul complained.

        "Because you're close to Alva, and you can see her. Basically, Mrs. Keel is climbing the mountain because it's there." Evie folded her arms across her chest, shaking her head. "Poor woman just wants an audience for her pain."

        "Poor woman?!" cried Paul. "She bowled me over and screamed in my face, Evie. Something about Dr. Keel's secret, a 'thorn' in her side. Mrs. Keel can take care of herself, trust me."

        "Of course it's not a good thing that she pitched a fit in your room and hurt you, Paul... I'm just saying..."

        Paul suddenly put a bandaged hand over his mouth and said, "Oh, God..." looking like he'd had a major revelation. "...Evie... Mrs. Keel got right in Dean's face and said he'd better never speak to her daughter like that again." He turned to Dean. "Her _daughter_."

        Dean had started nodding. "That teen girl spirit who showed up in your room. That's who she was. And Mrs. Keel said that to me?" Now he was even gladder he'd shot the bitch.

        "Would you like to let me in on what you're talking about?" said Evie.

        "Does Keel have a sister who died? He does, doesn't he?" Paul asked. "When she was a teenager?"

        "Yeah. He won't talk about it much, but he does have a family picture somewhere in his apartment and I asked about it once," replied Evie. "Alva told me she fell off a bridge when she was seventeen and drowned. He was only ten when it happened." She paused, almost dumbfounded by this time. "The sister was here too?"

        Paul just nodded, astounded by it all himself. It was fast becoming a Keel family reunion. "What was her name?"

        "Leighandra."

        Dean made a face. "No wonder she's haunting people."

        "Leigh for short," Evie added, rolling her eyes at him.

        Dean gave her a big grin. "I have a cousin named Lee."

        Evie deadpanned, "I'm so happy for you." She spoke in a normal tone to Paul, reaching out to rub his arm soothingly. "They're coming to you for a reason. I know you don't like them being here, but you should try to figure it out. But if Mrs. Keel attempts to hurt you again, we might need to tell Alva."

        "For now, though, we shouldn't," Paul said; it was obvious the idea of revealing this to Alva made him very uncomfortable.

        "I agree. This is really explosive. We can't be too gentle with a bombshell like this," Evie replied. She regarded Dean with a scolding, motherly look. "What did you say to Leighandra anyway?"

        Without even a hint of apology, Dean responded, "She wasn't invited in here and her presence was bothering Paul, so I called her a bitch and told her to fuck off."

        Evie shook her head. "Nice. You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

        There was an awful silence. Paul cringed and gave her an alarmed look, as if it could turn back time and keep her from making the verbal blunder. Evie had read Dean's file; how could she say that?

        Dean gave her an icy look that probably would have killed her if he'd had that power. If Evie had been a man, he would have punched her. "No. I don't typically kiss _dead_ women."

        Evie mentally slapped herself. "Oh... I'm sorry. I forgot."

        A long, awkward silence followed where Dean continued to stare Evie down. Would he ever stop glaring with those hurt little boy eyes? She had no choice but to try to shift the focus of the conversation. "Did Mrs. Keel do this too?" Evie pointed to a slight red mark on Paul's neck. "Those look like _teeth marks_."

        Dean finally looked away, letting out a surprised snicker.

        For his own part, Paul just looked embarrassed and cleared his throat. "Umm... I don't know, maybe some other object hit me."

        "Objects have teeth?"

        Waffling, he glanced at Dean, who had the side of his hand to his mouth to stifle more snickers, and finally said with a bit of annoyance, "Must I always be under the microscope?"

        "Sorr-yyyy." Evie didn't like it. Paul and Dean had known each other less than 24 hours and already had a private joke, clearly. Private jokes meant a certain amount of closeness. What could the two men possibly have to talk about? She wasn't so sure them being friends was such a hot idea. Sure as anything Alva wasn't going to like it. "How did you get Mrs. Keel to calm down? Or did she just leave on her own?"

        Smiling with pride (Dean loved his arsenal), he retrieved the sawed-off shotgun and held it up. "It's filled with rock salt rounds. Salt is a spirit deterrent. Bam, and the bitch said bye."

        Evie flinched when she saw the gun, but that was nothing compared to the look of horror on her face when she heard what he'd done with it. "You _shot_ her? Don't you think that's a bit extreme?"

        "Got the job done."

        "And now you've pissed her off even more. My God, you're reckless," Evie said, exasperated.

        "You say tomato, I say screw you," Dean replied in a peppy voice.

        Now it was Paul's turn to fold his arms and glare. "Would you two stop?"

        Evie suddenly snatched the gun from Dean's hand and set it on the table.

        "Hey!" he barked.

        "All guns on the table," she insisted. "It makes me very nervous to have you armed in my presence. We don't need them right now anyway."

        Normally, Dean would have told her to take a flying leap, but for Paul's sake, he'd indulge her. He couldn't resist getting in a few digs, though. "Phew, chickie, you are riding me really hard. Are you into me?"

        "You wish," Evie scoffed. "Guns on the table."

        Sighing, Dean pulled his second gun, the Glock, from the back of his waistband and placed it on the table, within his reach. Paul gaped, not only because he'd had no idea Dean was so heavily armed, but because he wondered why the man felt he needed all those guns just going up to Paul's apartment. Did he carry that much firepower all the time?

        Good, that Paul had that look on his face in reaction to Dean's guns, Evie thought. Showed he still had some sense. "Thank you. Now the knives."

        Dean smiled with his mouth closed, lips tight. "I don't have any knives."

        "I read your file, Dean. I updated it. I know you have knives on you."

        "Good to see you remember _something_ from that file. How do you know all this stuff about me and my family?" Dean asked, annoyed. "Did you stalk me yourself, sweetheart?"

        "Put the knives on the table and I'll tell you how we know," Evie offered.

        "Told you, I don't have any knives." He spread out his arms, then dropped his hands in his lap.

        "You know, if you two want to be alone, I could go get a coffee or something," Paul joked, wanting to lighten the building tension.

        Dean quipped, "Don't be jealous, Paul, I still like you best," and grabbed Paul's ass through his jeans. Paul jumped back like Dean's hand was a giant stinger and glared at him, embarrassed. Dean just smirked. Paul could be so straight-laced, it was fun to mess with him.

        The more he made jokes, the more Evie knew she had him. She just smirked back and took out her cell phone. "If you don't cooperate, I'll call my friends at the South Boston police station and tell them they should get over here really fast to check out a 1967 Chevrolet Impala, Kansas plate KAZ 2Y5, for connections with various felonies, and that they'd be _real_ interested in the contents of the trunk."

        Paul's eyebrows went up.

        Dean, temporarily speechless, worked his jaw angrily while he tried to think of a comeback. "You a cop?"

        "Former. South Boston PD, District 8."

        "Crap." This would usually be the moment when he'd make a break for it... usually. Dean couldn't leave. Paul was supposed to lead him to Sam. He sighed. It just wasn't worth it. "Fine," was all he said before reaching up his sleeve and pulling out a small knife, tossing it on the table.

        "What about the other arm?"

        "I got dressed in a hurry," Dean growled at her angrily.

        Paul just blinked at all the weaponry on the table. "Dean, do you really need all that?"

        Shrugging, he said, "I feel naked without it."

        They all fell silent for a few seconds. Dean looked at Evie, waiting, and finally grinned in triumph. "You forgot one," he declared with a snicker, and pulled another knife from his boot, tossing it on the table with the other.

        Staring with her mouth slightly open, Evie looked from Dean from Paul with a startled expression. Dean could have kept that concealed; he was right, Evie had completely overlooked the possibility of a knife being hidden there. But instead, Dean had chosen to give it up for the sake of getting one up on her. He was good, but his pride could be his downfall. "Touché, I guess."

        Dean looked at Evie as if he expected something from her. "Well?"

        "Well what?"

        "You said all guns on the table."

        "They are," she assured.

        "Liar," retorted Dean. "You're a former cop. You still carry a gun out of habit. I bet it's in your purse."

        Evie paused, thought about it, and gave in. She reached into her leather handbag and took out a handgun.

        Paul raised his hands at eye level in surrender. "Now I've seen everything."

        Dean, however, was not surprised. "You know, it amazes me how self-righteous you cops can be, but as soon as I offer a little touch, you're all here you go with the info. What upstanding citizens you are. I think you're just a bunch of hypocrites."

        Dropping the gun on the table, Evie made a sound of disgust. "As soon as you offer a little touch? I could have gone my whole life without knowing that." She tried to ignore his anti-cop tirade. "Well, now we can get down to business."

        "Uh, no, babe. You owe me an explanation first," reminded Dean. "Where did this guy Keel's file come from? The 'Winchester' file?"

        Sitting down and opening the laptop, Evie answered, "Paul and I work for Alva Keel. Have you heard of him? Or Sodalitas Quaerito?"

        "Both names are vaguely familiar. My dad might've mentioned them. As a rule, he learns as much as he can about any important players in the business." When he spoke of his father, Dean straightened up his shoulders with intense pride. "And this Keel guy was involved in the second Mothman thing."

        Evie nodded, continuing, "Alva has built up a large list of contacts over the years. People all over the world. Some, you could call associates, others, operatives, whatever you prefer. Many of them are very stealthy, and will take things in return for getting information Alva needs. Some do it out of loyalty or respect. Either way, you make enough friends, and you get all the info you want on a father traveling the country with his two young sons, killing every evil thing in their path and stirring up Adept societies everywhere. Many people have debated over your father's methods for years now, some of the smartest Occult experts you could name. These files are part of Alva's methods."

        The computer had booted up while she was talking. Evie now looked through various files for a particular picture. "Now, you have adopted every method your father taught you, and followed his lead, but even you have weaknesses, Dean. Like a cute little blonde in Tampa with a tiny digital camera."

        She turned the laptop around so Dean could see the photo on the screen of the open trunk of the Impala. Paul marveled in shock at the arsenal of guns, knives, and paranormal gadgetry. "You've probably got better things to impress women with, Dean," Evie concluded.

        Appalled, Dean growled out, "This is more than a little threatening. Why does this guy want all of this information and these pictures?" He pecked at the laptop with his fingers, minimizing the photo of the trunk so he could see the directory behind it. Other images were labeled, "Dean Winchester," "Sam Winchester," "John Winchester"... that was as much as he saw before Evie turned the laptop away from him.

        "That's just Alva," she said with a dismissive shrug. "He collects as much information as he can on the paranormal. Before your family began the hunting, you did experience a rather rare paranormal event."

        Dean was horrified to hear anyone describe the murder of his mother as a "paranormal event." He said, "I want to meet this Alva Keel. I need to know what gives him the balls to stalk me and my family so he can build some file that threatens our safety. If the wrong people saw that file... or the wrong non-people..."

        Paul just shook his head. "Don't go to the trouble, Dean. I've already tried in that department."

        Although he knew there was a story behind that comment, Dean didn't pursue it. He just let out a sigh. "Whatever. I want to talk to him as soon as possible. Now, turn that thing back around so I can see the rest of my file. I have a right to see it."

        Paul's phone began to ring. He went to answer it, although the threat of another argument kept him distracted.

        "You're too riled up as it is; I don't think you should see anymore," said Evie, holding the laptop protectively.

        "Lady, turn that computer around - "

        Paul made a sound so shocked and fearful it stopped the argument cold. His whimper sent chills of alarm through both Evie and Dean. They looked to see Paul trying to seat himself on the arm of the couch before his legs collapsed underneath him.

        "Paul?" Dean and Evie rushed to his side, putting supporting arms around him to help him find the seat he was searching for. "What's wrong?"

        He pointed a shaking finger at the caller ID box. Dean and Evie both looked.

        It read...

  
PAYPHONE  
MOUNTAINEER, VT

  
        For a second, Dean wondered if Paul was about to get a call from himself. Then he remembered that this Tommy kid said they would receive a message about Sam. This was just weird enough... "Answer it!"

        The phone had reached four rings, at which time the answering machine picked up. "Hi, you've reached Paul's place. Leave your name, number, and message after the beep, and I'll get back to you as soon as I can." BEEP.

        They all waited with held breaths to see who was on the line. Then, out of the faint sound of fluttering filament wings, came the voice of the Mothman. "Paul."

        Paul nearly fell off the arm of the couch. He covered his mouth with one hand and just tried to remember how to breathe.

        Dean took in the fact that Paul was too freaked to answer the person on the phone, so he slapped the speakerphone button. The answering machine kept recording the call. "We're here."

        "Hello Dean. Hello Evelyn."

        She swallowed down a lump of shock. "Uh... hi." An infamous creature that had only been seen in two series of sightings on this planet and it knew she was in the room... even knew her name.

        "Hey dude," said Dean. "I recognize your voice. You're the guy who called to tell me Sam wanted to meet me in Boston. Where is he?"

        "I told a little fib," the Mothman said with mock regret. "But it was important that I bring you two together."

        Paul hadn't been listening to every word because he'd been trying to recover from the initial shock - he now asked, "Whom? Keel and I?"

        "No. I wasn't talking about you and Keel this time."

        Paul slowly looked at Dean. "You mean... you carried out this plan to bring _Dean_ and I together?!"

        "Yes. It is important that you figure out why."

        Dean and Paul stared at each other meaningfully. "What was it that you were saying about someone planning all this out and us being puppets in the game?" Dean said to Evie.

        Over the phone, the Mothman corrected him. "Actually she said 'this whole thing seems a little too engineered. Like someone planned it all out and we're just players in the drama.'"

        "Gee, thanks man," Dean replied sarcastically, and actually shuddered at the things the creature knew. "Why would you bring me and Paul together? It couldn't have been for - " He stopped himself before he said something about the sex. "...couldn't have been for nothing."

        "I'm not going to do all the work, Dean."

        "Then what did you call for?" snapped Paul. "You don't do all this to just say hello, how are you, did you ever recover from that time I kidnapped you."

        "I wanted to apologize for not being more specific with my warning about Danielle Franklin. You couldn't have saved her, Paul. You shouldn't feel guilty." Although his words were soothing, the Mothman's tone was not. He still sounded like he was playing with them.

        "You're not sorry, you don't even care. You like taunting us. I don't know why, but you _enjoy_ it," Paul said through gritted teeth. His eyes glimmered with angry tears he refused to shed.

        Dean reached over to rub Paul's arm, seeing he was upset, but pulled back. The chick, Evie, obviously wasn't aware of Paul's extracurricular activities with men, and Paul didn't want her to know. Dean became aware that irritating little pinpricks were making their way through his brain, deep inside where he couldn't scratch, though he wished he could. He knew from what he'd learned doing this work with his dad that the Mothman was using powers of clairsentience. He could see, hear, and feel what was happening to people many miles away through a sixth sense, in real time. That was the only way the Mothman could know about Paul's conversation with Keel a little earlier in the day. Unless the guy knew how to tap phones.

        "Maybe I'm just bored," the Mothman said to Paul. He spoke directly to Dean again. "You don't like people sticking labels on you, Dean. Why must you do it to me?"

        Ah, so he could add 'telepathic' to the list. "You can read minds too?"

        "Yes. I can receive thoughts. How do you think I found out so much about you and Sam?" The Mothman's presence could be felt so strongly, even through the phone, that it was almost like they could see him turn his head to look at Evie. "Your update of the Winchester file was very thorough."

        "It felt like someone was poking through your brain with a needle, huh?" Dean asked Evie, putting two fingers to his temple.

        She just nodded, and placed her hands on Paul's shoulders to support him. Even a week ago, the Mothman was preparing for this by reading Evie's mind. He apparently could see the future; he'd probably known Paul's memories of what happened in Mountaineer would be recovered and when.

        "As I was saying, Paul, you could not have saved Danielle Franklin's life. Evil has aligned itself against you, and will build up its forces to take out the rest of your inner circle. They want you alone when you face your greatest challenge. They'd settle for you being evil instead."

        Paul shook his head at those words. God, what was the creature talking about? "Fine, whatever, inner circle. Right."

        "You'll stand a better chance if you start believing in the end of the world, Paul," the Mothman advised.

        "I don't want to," he replied petulantly. "I just want a normal life!"

        "But Paul..." The Mothman took a dramatic pause. "...you _aren't normal_."

        Paul put his head in his hands, and after several long seconds, mumbled, "Shut up. God, just shut up."

        Dean's need to hug the man was almost overwhelming; he fidgeted in place.

        "But there are things you need to know, Paul. Crossed correspondences. What you are. Keel works in secrets - there are things he would never tell you unless he was forced to. There is one very big one that will elude you for a time, but once you find out... well, you'll have to decide for yourself how you'll want to digest the truth."

        Paul gave a shrug. "I already knew that. I know Keel has another secret."

        "Because of what Diane McNeal said."

        "Yes."

        "What did Diane McNeal say?" Evie asked.

        Paul waved her off; later, later. This wasn't the time.

        "I'm not sure you can imagine that truth, Paul. But it may be everything you ever wanted," the Mothman said. For the first time, his voice did not sound mocking and mischievous. It sounded sympathetic. "I will not call again, but I will tell you of the devastation at the uniform factory. There is little time left. Seventeen will be thought lost, but sixteen will burn." It clearly sounded like the Mothman was ready to hang up.

        "No, wait!" Dean cried. "You know where Sam is, don't you? Isn't that really why you called?!"

        "I know exactly where Sam is. He's right here with me."

        "In Mountaineer, Vermont? Where?!" Dean yelled, almost grabbing the phone. He wanted to reach through it and throttle answers out of the Mothman, but immediately, he found he didn't have to. They all heard a young man coughing on the other end, coughing and then throwing something up.

        Dean recognized the basic components of his brother's voice in those sounds. He thumped down on his knees before the short table that held Paul's phone, bringing himself close to it like it would bring him closer to Sam, and listened helplessly to the gagging noises. "Sam?! Sammy! Are you hurting my brother?!" Dean grasped the sides of the table hard.

        Paul reached out and squeezed Dean's shoulder. "It's okay. Sam will be fine in a minute."

        Feeling frazzled, Dean snapped, "How do you know?!"

        "Because what happened to me the night I drove to Mountaineer has now happened to Sam." Paul looked at Evie, who nodded in understanding. "The Mothman can't speak in human language; he's like an animal. He has to use a person as a conduit to speak through. The way he does that is by inserting a pod into the throat of his conduit through which he speaks," Paul explained, all very clinically and detached. He couldn't emotionally handle telling the story any other way.

        "The pod also controls the person through drugs it produces," Evie added. "We heard it all from Paul during yesterday's hypnosis session. Your brother just threw up the pod. It all makes a great deal of sense, that this is what happened to Sam."

        "You mean, this whole phone call, and the one I received the other day, we've actually been talking to _Sammy_?!" asked Dean, stunned.

        Paul nodded.

        The retching sounds had stopped. "Dean?" Sam's voice said weakly.

        Dean wheeled back around to face the phone. "Sammy... hey kid, you're going to be okay."

        "Dean, where are you?" Sam sounded confused and a little scared. "Where am _I_?"

        The things Paul and Evie had said disturbed Dean to his very core. This... this _monster_ had shoved a pod into Sammy's throat to kidnap him, control his actions, and speak through him. What gave it the right to do something like that to his baby brother? Every protective bone in his body sang that this thing needed to die. Just the image of Sam standing in some anonymous phone booth, scared and disoriented and in his pajamas, made Dean want to rip this thing's head off with his bare hands. Except, it didn't have a head... "You're in Vermont, Sam. But you're safe now."

        "Where are you?"

        "I'm in Boston."

        "How did I end up in Vermont and you in Massachusetts?!" Sam asked with alarm. "Dean, I don't remember how I got here."

        Dean reached out like he was going to pet the phone, wishing he could touch his brother, soothe him, calm him down. "Sammy, it's going to be okay. I'll explain everything when I come get you."

        "It'll take hours to drive from Boston to Vermont." Sam paused as he looked around. "Dean, shit, I'm in my pajamas. I don't even have any shoes on."

        Cringing, Dean replied, "I know. I'm going to take care of it as soon as I can."

        Paul leaned down to Dean's current eye level. "We have a friend who can help, just give me a minute to make a phone call, okay?" He got out his cell phone and dialed Officer McCann's number.

        "You hear that, Sammy? We're going to take care of you in a jiff."

        "Who's there with you?"

        "That was Paul." Dean watched him on his cell phone for a meaningfully long time. "He's a friend."

        Paul got Officer McCann on the phone. "Hi, this is Paul Callan. Are you still in Boston? I need your help." He paused for a shaken breath. "It's happened again."

        A minute later, Paul walked back over to Dean and said, "My friend is a Mountaineer policewoman. She knows all about what happened to me, and believes. Officer McCann has called her partner in Mountaineer, and he's going to pick Sam up and take him to the station, where he'll be safe until you can get there. We have a hunch Sam is at the same payphone I used when I made my calls, across the street from an Econo Lodge. Right, Sam?"

        Sam looked; there was a pause. "Yeah," he answered.

        "This will all be done off the record. They won't even run your names through the computer. Look for Officer Sullivan, okay Sam?" Paul gave Dean a warm, comforting smile. "Oh, and, uh, the officer will be taking a sample of the stuff you threw up for my employer, okay? Just so you don't think he's crazy or something. We can explain that to you later."

        Too grateful to currently care about this 'sample' Keel wanted, Dean said, "Thank you," and brushed Paul's cheek with his fingers. Evie narrowed her eyes; that was an awfully familiar thing to do. "Did you hear all that, Sammy?"

        "Yeah." Sam's voice regressed ten years with fear. "I'm kind of all alone here... totally unarmed... will you talk to me until the officer arrives?"

        "Of course I will," Dean replied, finally letting the relief wash over him. "I know how much you _love_ the sound of my voice. You have got to stop getting kidnapped, Sammy. I mean it this time. I never thought we'd get this chance again. Didn't think our luck would ever be this good after the hillbilly cagematch jamboree."

        Sam laughed a little.

        "Was that a chuckle I heard? You think it's funny, the image of that creepy little Missy bitch in a cage? People could visit her, like at the zoo. Throw peanuts at her and shit."

        Chuckling again, Sam added, "We could charge admission."

        Evie stood behind him and listened to Dean keep his brother company, and marveled over the difference. This was the same piggish jerk who grabbed Paul's rear in front of her as a joke and carried more weapons than any one man should need? With his brother, he was so gentle and protective. Maybe Dean Winchester wasn't all bad.


	4. Winchester Pride

A **Miracles/Supernatural** Cross-over Fanfic  
by Laurel (Sailorhathor)

 **Chapters:** 4 of 5  
 **Rating:** Adult17+  
 **Word Count:** 40,864 total; 5,737 this chapter

 **Part IV: Winchester Pride**

        The sun had gone down by the time Dean and Sam got back from Vermont. Dean still insisted on "chatting" with Alva, and it was obviously very important to him if he was willing to drive all those hours back from Vermont. Paul had suggested to him that he take a plane, since it would be so much faster, but Dean just mumbled something in response about how he'd rather drive.

        Evie and Paul had filled Alva in on everything that had happened before the Winchester brothers got back. Although he knew Dean was angry with him for the file, the spectre of the heavily armed man hanging over his head did not seem to shake him. Alva was calmly reading through _The Book of Revolution_ when Dean got back with Sam.

        Sam was now dressed in regular clothes, complete with shoes. By the look of him, he should have just stayed in his pajamas; he seemed very sleepy. Dean kept a protective arm around his shoulders. Looking at Sam, Paul remembered how tired he'd been after the Mothman's attack - he'd slept practically the whole way back to Boston. He let them in his apartment and found a seat for the groggy little brother. Although, calling Sam a _little_ brother seemed wrong, with how tall he was. Sam towered over his older brother and Paul. What was he, at least 6'5"?

        "Hi Sam, I'm Paul."

        "Hey. Sorry I'm so out of it, but..."

        "I understand, Sam; it happened to me too. You'll probably sleep at least 16 hours tonight. It's the drugs it put into your system," Paul explained.

        Sam nodded slowly. "At first, I couldn't remember what happened, but it all came back on the ride here."

        That gave Paul pause. "You're not blocking it out?"

        "No, I guess not. I grew up being manhandled by monsters like that. I can deal," Sam said with a shrug.

        Paul nodded. "I didn't... didn't grow up like that at all."

        "I know. Dean told me. Before I conked out in the car, he told me all about you guys." Sam smiled with amusement. He especially liked Evie; any woman who could put his brother in his place as well as Dean had described had to be some woman. "This Alva Keel guy sure had him hopping mad."

        "That would be me." Alva had put down the book, and walked over to shake Sam's hand. "This is Evelyn Santos, our third member and Assistant Manager." Alva waved his hand in her general direction. She nodded at Sam in greeting. "Once you are feeling up to it, Samuel, might I interview you on your experiences with the Mothman?"

        Dean put a foot between Alva and where Sam was sitting before his brother could respond. "Fuck no."

        Paul winced; this was going to be awkward.

        Annoyed, Sam glared at the back of his brother's head. It really bothered him when Dean answered for him. Sam _was_ a grown man.

        Alva kept a smile on his face. "You are Dean Winchester."

        "That's right, MacPulpy."

        Alva blinked at him. "MacPulpy?"

        "Yeah, 'cause that's what I'm going to beat your Scottish ass into if you ever do anything that threatens my brother's life again," Dean growled.

        "Dean..." said three cautioning voices at once; Paul, Sam, and Evie all spoke.

        Alva regarded him with a furrowed brow and a smile as relaxed as he could manage. "What did I do that threatened your brother's life, Mr. Winchester?" Alva could not bring himself to call the young man 'Dean' for the same reasons Paul called him 'Keel' instead of by his first name - emotional distance.

        "You're keeping this file on my family. The Mothman read it through telepathy and thought my brother looked like a really bitchen set of stereo speakers. Who knows what could have happened to him," said Dean.

        Even Sam was exasperated by that one. "Dean, he couldn't have possibly known this would be the result of that file."

        "Why's he keeping the damn thing anyway?!"

        "Because they investigate the same stuff we do, and some people keep files," Sam explained, making it sound simple.

        "But I don't like somebody having a file on me. He's got photos of all of us. Even a picture of the Impala's trunk! With the secret panel open!" Dean cried angrily.

        "You and your family have been causing quite a stir in the parapsychological community for years now. Few use the methods you do, especially the violent ones. Except maybe Slayers." Alva gave a shrug. "Pictures are important."

        "I don't like it," Dean reiterated.

        Alva turned to him again and got a bit sarcastic himself, though his voice did not reflect it. "Well, Mr. Winchester, give me an address and I'll be sure to mail you a picture so you can keep a file on me."

        Mouth curling into a snarl, Dean's arm tensed up; it was obvious he was about to pull back his fist.

        "Dean!" Sam yelled.

        Paul and Evie leapt to their feet.

        Sam continued, "Lots of groups have files on us, Dean. Remember Dad telling us about that?"

        "Yeah, but do they have pictures too?" Dean glared at Alva, bouncing on his feet, trying to decide if he wanted to pop the guy one or not.

        The only sign of fear in Alva showed in the way his eyes widened slightly and then shifted around as he realized the young man really wanted to hit him. He refused to show more than that. He knew Dean could hurt him pretty badly if he wanted to; who had been trained to fight here? But Alva knew that if he showed any fear, it would be like showing it to a territorial rottweiler.

        Dean glanced down at Sam, then uncurled his fingers. "You better stop riding me, man. Everyone in your outfit has ridden my ass and I don't like it." A sudden thought made him smirk. "Well, except for when..." He directed the smirk at Paul, who gave him a discouraging look back.

        Okay, what was that? Alva and Evie both wore question marks above their heads; they were clueless as to what this cryptic banter between Paul and Dean meant, especially when they spoke it with a smirk and a look. Evie thought she was beginning to figure it out, though.

        Sam didn't quite get it either, though he could read his brother fairly well by now. Dean didn't like nor trust the others, but he did feel some sort of connection to Paul.

        "I'll try to stop 'riding' you," Alva said, and spoke to Sam again. "Are you sure we can't talk?"

        "Wait," Dean suddenly said. "Yeah, you can interview him, as long as you share everything you learn, all your theories, with me."

        Alva shrugged. "Certainly. Is there a specific reason?"

        "Because I need to learn everything I can about it if I'm going to hunt it. The Mothman dies," Dean declared.

        They all stared at him as if he'd just broken into an unexpected chorus of "I Feel Pretty." His proclamation sounded insane. What was even crazier was the casual conviction with which he'd said it.

        Even Sam remarked, "Dean, you can't be serious."

        "Does this not look like my serious face, Sammy?"

        Tempting fate, Alva stepped a little closer to Dean. "Mr. Winchester, I don't think you understand - "

        Dean whirled toward him. "No, _you_ don't understand! This thing, this _monster_ , it came and lured Sam outside by making wounded animal noises. It wanted him vulnerable and alone. And my brother is a topnotch fighter, Keel. But it was still able to jump him and hold him prone like a rag doll and stuff some pod down his throat so it could control him." Dean winced as he said those words, his eyes crinkling and showing the crow's feet at the corners that had shown up about a year ago. "Then it just snatched him up and flew off with him, like I wouldn't be left behind going nuts, thinking he was dead or worse. All so it could make a _phone call_. No, nobody does that to a Winchester, least of all my baby brother. He's my responsibility. The Mothman dies by my hand. You tell me how I can find it."

        In that moment, Sam realized how much pain was behind what Dean had just said, and how loved he was and always would be by his older brother. "Oh, Dean..." he said, shaking his head at how silly he was. But Sam loved him for it.

        Paul sat back down and opened the door on his empathy. He knew he shouldn't do this, knew it was like spying, but since Keel had mentioned to him that he was probably empathic, he'd been playing with it, honing it, trying to learn how to turn it off and on at will. At times, Paul was like an empathy junkie, feeding off others' emotions, drinking his fill and then leaving like a stealthy burglar without them even knowing he was in their heads and hearts. It wasn't like it hurt them in any way. He focused on Dean, and tried to filter out the anger, telling himself he was just working on the control of his empathy, when really he wanted to feel that pure, protective love of family. It was warm, whole, and soothing... everything Paul ever wanted. He closed his eyes and drowned in it. In ways, it made Paul jealous. As much as he wanted his father to acknowledge him, growing up with a sibling would have been even nicer.

        Alva let out a sigh. "Mr. Winchester, there are several really good reasons why you can't kill this creature."

        "Oh yeah? What are they? Huh? What's going to keep me from getting it where it lives?"

        "Because it _lives_ in the fourth dimension."

        "...Oh." Dean tried to keep his cocky stance, but fumbled for a comeback, ruining the effect. Paul thought it was cute to watch. "Where's that?"

        "The fourth dimension is around us at all times. You could think of it as an extension of length, height, and width if you could add time as a component. While we are three-dimensional beings and can see up to three sides of a cube at a time, a being like the Mothman can view all sides of the cube at once. He is able to see into the past, present, and future, something we do not have the capability of doing. While the fourth dimension is - "

        "Okay, my brain is melting here. I get it," Dean sing-songed. "If there's a way out, there has to be a way in."

        "You couldn't survive on that plane. You're a third-dimensional being," Alva tried to explain.

        Dean thought it over. "Then we have to find a way to draw it out here. The Mothman has come to our 'plane' at least three times now, that we know of. We can draw it out again."

        "Mr. Winchester..." Alva spoke in a very serious but almost pleading tone. "...don't do this thing. Haven't you been listening to your own words? This is extremely dangerous. Your brother is a 'topnotch fighter,' but the Mothman snatched him up with little effort. He's very strong... fast... you could both be killed. Besides... aren't you at all curious what else the Mothman knows?"

        Dean glowered at Alva, wondering where this guy was coming from. "No. I could care less."

        "But it's a being of prophecy. It could even be some sort of personification of fate. Perhaps there's a great deal we could learn from him." Alva had taken on his 'professor' voice, the voice of teaching.

        But Dean was too angry to listen. "All I care about is what it did to my brother. The Mothman's actions were evil. If it wanted to tell us stuff, there were better ways to do that. It's an evil creature."

        "I believe the knowledge the Mothman possesses is too important to give up so easily," Alva said, crossing his arms over his chest with conviction.

        "More important than what it did to Paul?"

        There was a long, tense silence in the room. Paul's eyebrows slowly rose.

        "Have you seen his hands? The bruises, the cuts? I wrapped those hands. Do you even care what all this has done to him?" asked Dean accusingly. "Sam has dealt with more of this kind of shit over his lifetime, and even he was scared and shaken. Think of what something like this must do to someone whose total childhood experience with monsters was in the movies."

        Alva gritted his teeth and suddenly hissed, "Of course I care," surprising even Dean. "But these things are drawn to Paul because of his psychic gifts. There isn't anything I can do to stop that."

        "But there is." Hands on his hips, Dean paced back and forth as he spoke. "You could protect this apartment with salt circles."

        Alva immediately turned to Paul. "Do you want large circles of salt drawn across your floors?"

        Paul had to shake his head. "No. Sorry Dean, I know you're just trying to help, but I don't know how I'd ever explain that to people."

        Growing frustrated, Dean said, "Then use invisible energy circles."

        "Is that what you want?" Alva again asked Paul.

        "If we did that, then ghosts who need help, like Audrey, couldn't get in. No. No circles."

        With a helpless expression, Dean moved closer to Paul, saying, "We could tailor the circles to your specific needs - keep only the bad things out."

        "I'm not sure that's possible with a spirit like Audrey. She has another ghost who is attached to her, and he's pretty bad." Paul sighed. "No, I think I'd rather stick with the psychomantium chamber. We're close to convincing Audrey to use it."

        "You guys have a psychomantium?" Sam suddenly asked with as much excitement as his tired self could muster. "Can I see it sometime?"

        Alva wanted to stay on the young man's good side; he smiled and nodded. "Of course."

        "I always thought those things were a little interesting." He grinned at his brother. "Remember when we were teenagers and we wanted a psychomantium, and Dad wouldn't let us build it because he said it was too dangerous?"

        Although Dean was still stuck on the protective circles, he couldn't pass up this opportunity to entice his brother to stay in the fold. Was this really Mr. I Want a Normal Life, showing a genuine interest in something paranormal? "We could make a portable one if you really want it."

        Sam grinned, looking boyish.

        Dean paced across the room and back to Paul. "If you don't protect your apartment in some way, then violent ghosts will come in too." He was talking about Vivian Keel, though he wouldn't say her name out loud with Alva there. Dean wanted to respect Paul's wishes to keep the dead woman's visit secret for now.

        Thinking it over, Paul replied, "They need my help also."

        "But you'll be hurt." Dean raised his hand to touch lightly around the area of Paul's forehead where he'd been hit, suddenly remembered there were other people in the room, and fidgeted awkwardly before dropping his hand. He looked at the others a bit self-consciously to see if they'd noticed.

        Paul sometimes just didn't care about the ethics of it; he empathically dipped right into Dean's emotions toward him. He already cared so much for Paul's safety, so protective, such warmth, such fear of losing people close to him. Dean had seen those people get hurt so many times that he desperately tried to prevent it, and felt like a bit of a failure when he couldn't. Dean already didn't want Paul to be another failure. Paul had to close his eyes momentarily; the emotions came rushing through so fast sometimes.

        When he reopened them, Dean was looking at him with concern, expecting a reply. "I've been hurt before," Paul said. "I always heal. Helping others is more important. You follow that philosophy too."

        Dean didn't know what to say. He was caught between knowing Paul spoke the truth and wanting to save him. He finally said something that maybe he shouldn't have. "What about the sleepwalking?"

        Paul's eyes widened until one might think they would fall out of his head. "How did you-" His eyes then narrowed. "Oh. Mrs. Bongiovi told you." Paul knew his neighbors well enough to know who was the gossip.

        "Yeah. She told me you even leave your apartment sometimes." Dean looked at Evie, then Alva. "Mrs. Bongiovi told me you were concerned, but you..."

        Paul jumped up. "You know too?!" He ran his hands through his hair, walking the room, working up a full brood.

        "Paul, your neighbor was just concerned about you," Alva said. "She told us because we're your friends."

        "Mrs. Bongiovi shouldn't have told you. Am I just not entitled to even an ounce of privacy?"

        "Why would you want to hide something like that?" asked Dean.

        Sam broke into the conversation, adding, "For the same reasons I didn't want to talk about my nightmares for so long."

        After considering that, Dean sighed over all the dangers and pain he could neither erase nor control. But there was one thing he felt he could do _something_ about. "Why do you pretend you're so concerned with Paul's safety?" he asked Alva confrontationally. Alva blinked at him, wondering what the motivation was for this renewed attack. "Paul's neighbor told me what your response was when she told you about him leaving his bed at night. Did you or did you not tell her to write down anything Paul said when she caught him sleepwalking? Wouldn't it be better if she got him back in bed instead of spending all her time writing you a note?"

        Paul looked confused in response.

        Simply nodding, Alva did not deny it. "Yes, I told Mrs. Bongiovi to do that. I also told her to try to get him back in bed. Asking her to write these things down doesn't mean I want her to encourage Paul to walk around _more_."

        Paul asked the inevitable question. "Why do you want Mrs. Bongiovi to write down the things I say while I'm sleepwalking?"

        Alva appeared uncomfortable to be forced to answer that, but didn't feel he had a choice at this point; he replied, "Because I don't believe your sleepwalking is a normal case of somnambulism. I think you sleepwalk because the forces within you see that time as their chance to speak out. Just like they did when you were hypnotized."

        Paul stared at Alva in absolute shock. He wasn't even fully sure what all that meant. "Forces? Some sort of 'forces' spoke from inside me while I was hypnotized?"

        Cringing at the worried look on Paul's face, Dean regretted bringing this whole thing up.

        Alva tried to be gentle. He knew this sort of thing was always hard for Paul to hear about himself. "Yes. You obviously don't remember that part. Do you remember what happens when you walk in your sleep?"

        "Never. I just wake up out of my bed." Paul sat back down. No matter how much he hadn't wanted to talk about this, he was talking about it now. "You're serious? I spoke like I was some sort of force within me?"

        Oh great, now he had an "I'm crazy, aren't I?" tone to his voice. Dean could have kicked himself.

        Alva explained the voice of the "Forces" to Paul, how his voice had changed, and the things he'd said during the times that he'd spoken this way.

        "God, I sound like some kind of freak," was Paul's response.

        Alva shook his head. "Don't do that to yourself, Paul. After the things you've seen... the ghost of a little girl who could cause disasters, a troop of Civil War soldiers marching through modern times, even the other side... how could you think you're crazy just because your abilities have been given a voice?"

        Dean tried to help. "Yeah, Paul, I mean, it's not like you're walking around when you're _awake_ saying crazy shit."

        Paul laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "Thanks, Dean. Good to know it sounds insane either way."

        It took Dean a second to realize what he'd said; he eventually rolled his eyes. "You know I didn't mean it that way."

        Alva, trying to recover some ground, pointed out, "Mr. Winchester makes a good point, you know. It does only happen when you're out in some way."

        "You'll excuse me if I'm not very comforted." Paul ran his hands through his hair again, smoothing some of it back. "I'm sorry. This is all so weird."

        "Take your time," said Alva.

        "Why is this happening, Keel? Why don't all psychics walk in their sleep?" Paul asked.

        "Seems like different abilities manifest themselves in different ways. I have nightmares," Sam pointed out. "Ones that come true."

        Alva looked at him with interest.

        "But Keel thinks there's something special about the way Paul's abilities vent themselves. That's why he wants what they say written down. Am I right?" Dean said to Alva.

        "Uh... you're on the right track, Mr. Winchester." Alva definitely wasn't comfortable discussing any of this at this point. But there it was.

        "What are you looking for, Keel?" Paul asked.

        His eyes shifting from side to side, Alva let out a sigh. "After all the time we've worked together, Paul, we still differ on what I'm looking for."

        Paul only had to think on that one briefly to figure out the answer. "The end of the world."

        "Yes. I've received information that it could be upon us. Maybe tomorrow, maybe years from now. Then the Mothman calls today and says that evil is aligning against us. All the signs point to my information being correct. You will play a significant part in preventing this Apocalypse, Paul," Alva explained to him.

        After a short pause, Paul began to laugh. "That's nuts. You may not believe it, but the mere idea... I wish you would give up on this, Keel."

        Dean was not laughing. "Who does this information come from?"

        "I'd rather not reveal that at this time. It would leave them too vulnerable." It would also be a bit too hard to explain that he'd heard all this from a stranger in a dream, a teenage girl to boot. Alva couldn't explain the feelings that told him she knew what she was talking about; how did one expound on a hunch, a dreading of the future from the pit of one's gut?

        Some would have thought it strange that Dean didn't doubt Alva's words, even if Alva wouldn't reveal his source, but Dean obviously didn't, as he gazed at Paul helplessly and said, "You think Paul's inner voices may give you some clues, that they may be able to predict the Apocalypse, to help prevent it."

        "Yes."

        "Don't tell me he's convinced you too?" Paul laughed.

        "After some of the shit I've seen? I was already convinced," Dean replied.

        "I also think that beings like the Mothman could provide valuable information on the subject," continued Alva. "That's why I beg you not to kill him."

        "What, you're going to _question_ it?" Dean scoffed.

        "If I could find a way..."

        "But there's no way to talk to it without a person acting as its conduit," Dean pointed out.

        "That's true..." Putting a finger to his lips, Alva gave it some thought.

        "Holy shit, you _would_!" cried Dean, giving a little hop of incredulous anger. "You would totally let the thing attack Paul again if it meant you got to talk to the creature! You'd put him in danger if it led to you getting information."

        Suddenly on guard, Paul looked from one man to the other.

        "Have you ever had to prevent an Apocalypse, Mr. Winchester?" Alva asked.

        He wished he had a killer comeback, but Dean simply didn't. "No. That's one thing I've never had to do."

        "Then you don't know how much of a responsibility it is." Alva moved closer to him, looking him seriously in the eyes. " _I know_. I have lived with it for years now, and I still have no clue how the Apocalypse will begin. What sets it off? How do we stop it? What do I do to prepare Paul? All questions I need answers to. Obviously, the Mothman knows _something_ about it... if I had my chance to question him, I would. _I would_. Any sacrifice that was made would be for a noble cause."

        "What are you saying? Instead of killing the Mothman..." Dean leaned in. "...you want us to _capture_ it?"

        "If I thought it was possible, I'd say please, please do it. But I don't believe the Mothman can be captured."

        While this conversation was going on, Paul had been growing increasingly tense. The more he heard, the more he wanted them to ask for his input. Exactly who did they think was going to act as the Mothman's conduit? Was Keel volunteering Paul without even asking him? He couldn't handle that, could never allow that thing to touch him again, to shove another pod down his throat, no no, never ever. If Dean hadn't clarified his expectations with what he said next, Paul would have lost his composure and screamed at them both.

        Dean actually thought it over, relishing his love of the hunt. "If... if we could find someone else to act as the conduit... someone willing... and Sam and I had our dad's help..."

        "We could do it," Sam added with conviction. "I volunteer to be the conduit."

        Dean turned and glared at his younger brother. "In what universe is this happening?!"

        "Dean, don't worry, I can handle it."

        "But it's dangerous."

        "Everything we do is dangerous. Dean..." Sam stood up, putting his hands on Dean's shoulders. "...what if the Mothman knows something about the demon that killed Mom and Jessica?"

        He paused before speaking, remembering how much it hurt to be a little blonde boy feeling the heat from his mother's burning body on his face. "God, I don't know..."

        "I don't need your permission, bro," said Sam with a shrug.

        Dean, obviously frustrated, replied, "Saaam..."

        Sam just shot back, "Deeean," in imitation. "Does this not look like my serious face?"

        After a few seconds of fidgety, irritated waffling, Dean huffed, "Fine, I guess I'm in too, since I have no frickin' choice." He wanted information on the demon that murdered their mother and Jess worse than almost anything, but was it worth possible injury to his brother?

        Alva marveled over how fast this had come together; could they really accomplish such a thing?

        Still a bit perturbed, Dean went into the bag he'd brought up to Paul's apartment and took out a Tupperware container. "Oh, by the way, here's your Mothman spooge." He shoved the bowl into Alva's gut just a smidgen above too hard.

        "Oof!" Alva grunted. He took hold of the bowl, which anyone could see was half full of black and glowing green goop. "Uh, thank you."

        Sam, disgusted at the words his brother had used, scrunched up his face and complained, "Eww, Dean, I had that in my _mouth_!"

        Paul spoke up. "Hey, we have work to do. Remember, the Mothman made another prediction. A uniform manufacturer, sixteen will burn. He said there isn't much time left. That was hours ago. If this tragedy hasn't happened already, we'll be lucky. We should hurry to figure it out, and stop it."

        Within half an hour, they had it narrowed down to a branch factory of Sintac* Uniform Manufacturers.

        "Sam, you stay here and get some rest. Paul said it was okay to use his couch. The rest of us will take care of this," Dean said. "Now, I put some stuff in the four directional corners of Paul's apartment to keep the Mothman out, okay? Don't worry about that at all. Just get some sleep."

        Sam didn't argue. He was half asleep already. "Are we getting a hotel later?"

        "You guys can crash here tonight," Paul offered. "The couch folds out into a bed."

        "Thanks Paul. We'll take you up on that." Dean patted the currently closed couch. "That's a handy little thing." _Somehow I doubt I'll be on the couch tonight, though_ , Dean thought wryly.

        Alva looked uneasily at Evie. They were going to have to have a private talk before this night was over, as both were secretly worried about how close Paul had gotten to the Winchesters so quickly. Their worry was just for different reasons.

        Dean insisted they take his Impala after he got a look at Alva's car. He couldn't stop laughing at the Jeep Grand Wagoneer in the parking spot next to his. "You actually paid money for this hooptie mobile?" he asked, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. He sarcastically added, "Nice car."

        Alva tried to take it with good humor. He had to be used to it by now, after all the times people had teased him about his car. "I didn't buy it for its looks."

        "That's obvious," Evie said, sending herself, Paul, and Dean into peals of laughter. Alva cracked a genuine smile and chuckled a bit for his own part. It served to relieve the tension they were all feeling at having to walk right into a potential disaster, where they could be killed right along with those burning sixteen.

        On the way to the factory, they tossed around ideas of how they could convince the management that they should evacuate the place, but nothing sounded like it would work.

        "How about a gas leak?" Paul suggested.

        "Nah, they probably won't believe us without uniforms," Dean lamented with a shake of his head.

        "We could always borrow some from the factory," joked Evie.

        A feral smile spread across Dean's face. "I may have an idea."

        They walked into the lobby of the factory as casually as possible. "Can I help you?" the receptionist asked.

        "Where's the bathroom?" Dean inquired.

        "Down that hallway," she replied, pointing toward it.

        "Thank you." Dean grabbed the lapel of Paul's coat and leaned over to Alva and Evie. "When we get back, I'll tell you what we're going to do, okay? You wait here."

        "You have to go _now_?" Alva complained.

        "Trust me," Dean said, wiggling his eyebrows, and dragged Paul off with him.

        Alva commented to Evie, "Why does that only worry me?"

        She put her hands in her pockets, just hoping that no part of the factory would blow up in the next few minutes. "He's very abrasive, but he's growing on me. I guess Dean will have to, huh? The Mothman said he brought Dean and Paul together for a reason. Sounds like we'll see more of him."

        Alva barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. " _Lovely_."

        "When this is all over, we need to have a talk, Alva. A private talk." Evie turned to him and spoke quietly. "Our friend Paul is a little too naïve and charitable for his own good."

        "Well, that's how the church taught him to be, hm?"

        "Right. But that sort of nature can be taken advantage of."

        Alva nodded. "Yes, it can."

        "As much as I want to give Dean the benefit of the doubt, for Paul's sake... it's obvious he's, um... a bit overinterested in Paul," Evie said as euphemistically as possible.

        His eyebrows rising, Alva turned toward her halfway. "You think Mr. Winchester is trying to convince Paul to leave SQ and join up with him too?"

        All she could do was laugh for a good five seconds. "Oh, Alva... never mind. We'll talk later."

        Dean took Paul down the hallway, examining the wall along the way.

        "What are you looking for?" Paul asked.

        Dean grinned as he found it almost immediately. He looked up and down the hall to make sure they were alone, then grasped Paul's coat, pushed him against the wall, and gave him a deep, involved kiss.

        The touch of those warm, soft lips surprised Paul, but he recovered quickly, and responded by opening his mouth. Their tongues touched lightly, as did Paul's hand on Dean's hip. When Dean moved away, he ran his tongue over his lips to savor the taste of Paul's mouth.

        "What was that for?" Paul asked with a grin.

        "Just in case this doesn't work out, and we're all about to die or something. I can't leave this world without getting at least a little action." With that, Dean reached over and pulled the fire alarm on the wall next to Paul.

        Paul started at the sound. He smirked when he realized what Dean had done. "This was your great plan?"

        "Gets everybody out of the building, doesn't it?"

        The group stood outside the building with the workers, who were still evacuating. "This is what I should have done in Mountaineer before the avalanche hit," Alva mused with a pleased grin. "Bet that lodge manager would have just loved it."

        "I think things moved a little too fast in Mountaineer for you to even look for the fire alarm," Paul remarked. "They've almost got all the employees out of the building, and noth - "

        Paul's voice was eclipsed by the sound of the explosion at the back of the factory.

  
* _That one's for you, Karen, 'cause you know which letters to switch around._ ;D  



	5. Endpapers

A **Miracles/Supernatural** Cross-over Fanfic  
by Laurel (Sailorhathor)

 **Chapters:** 5 of 5  
 **Rating:** Adult17+  
 **Word Count:** 40,864 total; 8,939 this chapter  
 **Author's Notes:** "Endpaper" is a term for the paper in the front and back of a book that lines the inside of the front and back covers.  
See Part I for additional Author's Notes.

  
 **Part V: Endpapers**

        Everyone found places to sit in Paul's apartment that were not on the couch, since Sam's sleeping body took up the entire thing from one end to the other. He was deeply asleep, totally undisturbed by the sound of the television.

        They had been lucky. The factory was large, so they only felt the explosion in the shaking pavement under their feet. Their ears still rang with tinnitus at times, though, from the loud boom of the exploding factory machinery.

        On the television news, the fire department still fought the flames. A reporter interviewed an official spokesman for Sintac on the situation.

        "Are there any workers still unaccounted for?" the newscaster asked.

        "Yes, there are some employees we are still trying to locate," the spokesman replied uneasily.

        "How many?"

        "Seventeen. But one of those persons, we think, called in sick."

        Paul closed his eyes for a moment, taking in the fact that the Mothman had made another correct prediction.

        The spokesman continued, "Someone pulled the fire alarm a few minutes before the explosion. We have no idea who did it, or how they knew what was about to happen, but they should know that they saved the lives of hundreds of people. The building was almost fully evacuated at the time the explosion happened."

        Dean huffed on his fingernails and pretended to shine them on his shirt.

        As there wasn't much else to be done at the time, Evie went through the motions of going home to Matty, but not before she flashed Alva a discreet look. Alva, soon after, got up to leave too. He waited until Dean got involved in the Chinese take-out to pull Paul aside and ask him a few questions that had been disturbing him. "You and Mr. Winchester are thick as thieves today."

        Paul didn't let anything slip; he thought Keel had simply noticed how much time he and Dean had spent together, and didn't suspect just how "close" they'd _really_ gotten. "Yeah, we had a busy day."

        "What's going on?"

        That gave Paul pause while he figured out what to say. "What do you mean?"

        Alva glanced over at Dean, who was sitting slouched down in a comfortable chair, his knees splayed so far apart one would think he was waiting for a physical exam, a carton of Chinese food on his chest, from which he was enthusiastically eating. "Well, he's not exactly the usual type of friend you make..."

        "No," Paul shrugged, "but it turns out we have a lot in common. I wouldn't have thought we'd get along either. It's because of Tommy, and the Mothman, really, that Dean's here at all."

        "We're going to have to talk more about Tommy's miraculous return in the morning. You know there's a possibility there could be something sinister behind it."

        "On one level, I know it's possible, but somehow, I trust him fully. I understand, though, why we have to discuss it," Paul said with a sigh.

        After a pause to decide if he should really ask this question, Alva just did it. "Is Mr. Winchester trying to woo you away from SQ?"

        Paul let out a sudden, hearty laugh, so loud that Dean looked up from his food with narrowed eyes. When neither man stole any looks at him, he went back to watching TV. "Is that what you're worried about?" Paul asked. _No, he's just wooing me period_. "You are so paranoid, Keel." He shook his head. "No, Dean is not trying to 'woo' me away from SQ. What would he even do that with, when he's homeless and living out of his car?"

        Looking genuinely surprised, Alva said, "Really? He hasn't even said one word about you joining up with him?"

        "Yes, really. Not one word. Keel... you don't have to worry about me leaving SQ anymore, okay?" Paul grinned. "You're stuck with me."

        Alva smiled too. "Alright. But, there's something there... a reason for Mr. Winchester being here. It's why the Mothman manipulated the situation to bring you two together."

        Paul stole a look at Dean, which he didn't catch, and looked back to Alva. "There's a connection, yeah. I'm not sure what it is, but it is like meeting someone familiar to you and you have no idea where you've seen them before, but you know it was somewhere. Maybe in time, it will make sense." As a thought occurred to him, there was a sudden apology in Paul's eyes. "Hey, I just wanted to say I'm sorry for snapping at you over how you handled the Danielle Franklin thing. You were right, the Mothman was too vague with his words, and it was a difficult position to be in. It's the reason I wouldn't let you in yesterday. I was really mad at you," he explained with a chuckle.

        "It's alright, Paul." Alva gestured to Paul's hands. "Will you be okay? Do you want me to take you to the hospital for x-rays?"

        "No, I don't think anything's broken. I actually regret busting up my table more than my hands. At least hands heal." Paul looked over at the table with regret; it really was a nice piece of furniture.

        Alva walked over and examined the damage to the coffee table. "I think this can be fixed."

        Paul, brightening up, said, "Hey, we built the psychomantium, I bet we _could_ fix it."

        Looking up from the table, Alva replied, "I'll come pick it up in the morning and take it to the office, then we can fix it together." He peered at Dean, and commented with a wry grin, "I can pick it up in my 'hooptie mobile.'"

        Dean glanced at him with surprise, then just chuckled.

        Besides wanting to fix his table, Paul also thought the project would be good for him and Keel to do together. Paul could be a little too hard on Keel sometimes, when he just wanted Paul to like him.

        Alva knew from the look she had given him that Evie would be waiting for him by his car, so he didn't linger too long. Sure enough, she waited in the shadows beside the building, near the parking space that held the Wagoneer. "Alva."

        "Oh, there you are. You had more you wanted to explain?"

        "I sure do. Alva, I don't think Dean wants Paul to leave SQ. I don't think that's what he's after at all," said Evie.

        "Then what do you think it is?" Alva asked.

        Evie came closer, leaning against his car. "I believe he's sincere enough when he says he knew nothing of the Mothman's plan. Dean's just as bewildered by all this as we are. But I think along the way, he's developed a pretty intense attraction to Paul."

        If Alva had been drinking something at that time, this would have been a perfect time to do a spit take. "You think Mr. Winchester wants Paul for _sex_?"

        "Yes. Big time."

        "Why?!"

        "Well... for one thing, Paul said things that indicated that Dean slept in his bed last night. With Paul. Paul's so conditioned to be charitable and show hospitality to those in need that he'd allow something like this, even if there was a perfectly good couch for Dean to sleep on. All he had to do was complain that the couch was too lumpy or made his back hurt to sleep on it, and you know Paul would give in." Evie continued on her revisionist version of last night. "Dean probably did it because he wanted to be close to Paul in an intimate situation."

        Alva joined in. "Paul does know that Mr. Winchester is homeless, living out of his car. He probably feels sorry for him. It didn't seem there have been any advances; Paul seemed pretty relaxed around him."

        "I caught Dean touching Paul's face in gratitude. It was a very intimate gesture," Evie said, crossing her arms over her chest. "He seems to be quite infatuated with our Paul."

        "Well, Paul isn't an ogre; I mean, we can both see why someone would find him attractive, can we not? But Paul is so naïve that he probably doesn't even notice Mr. Winchester's interest."

        "I bet you're right. In fact, I know you are."

        Even with the shadow of Rebecca hanging over them, they couldn't see Paul as much of a sexual being. It was just impossible for them, spending so much time with only one of Paul's faces, which definitely wasn't the face that Dean had been allowed to see. It was the reason Evie was always trying to fix him up with someone. She thought Paul was, overall, too shy to make his own moves.

        Alva recalled, "You'll remember from the file that one of the people I tapped to follow the Winchesters a few years back was a male. He obtained the pictures of the brothers. I always thought the one he got of Dean Winchester was too... posed... with a grin like a predatory wolf. Not exactly how you pose for a regular photo."

        "You think he was sexually involved with the operative?"

        "It's very possible, isn't it? It's not like Mr. Winchester doesn't have a certain reputation..." Alva raised his eyebrows and cocked his head to the side.

        Evie, pausing, suddenly laughed. "Are we really talking about paranormal society gossip?"

        "Uh..." The idea embarrassed Alva a little, but she had a point. "Well, I did hear this from Lassiter's assistant, who heard it from the head of..."

        "Never mind. You're saying that the word around the Adept society is that Dean Winchester is a slut?"

        Alva had to laugh too, putting his hand over his eyes. "I guess that's what I'm saying."

        "Do the rumors mention men as well as women?"

        Now Alva was really embarrassed. "Yes."

        "I believe it." Evie reached over and pinched her boss's arm. "You shameless rumor monger. Didn't your mother ever tell you not to gossip?"

        "She was one of the worst," he said with a grin, rubbing his arm where she'd squeezed it.

        "Okay, so what do we do?" She threw her hands up, not knowing how to bridge the gap between protecting Paul and not invading his privacy.

        Alva shrugged. "We do nothing. Paul's a grownup; he can take care of himself."

        "But he's alone up there with Dean..."

        "No he's not; Samuel is up there with them."

        "But Sam's dead to the world for the night," Evie pointed out.

        "What do you think the man's going to do, Evelyn, rape Paul with his brother right there in the apartment?" queried Alva with a snort.

        "No..." She didn't peg Dean for the raping type either way. Seduction, though, was another story. "I think Dean might try to _convince_ Paul, though."

        "Again, with Samuel right there in the next room?" He looked at her, expecting a response.

        Evie finally had to give in. "No... I guess not."

        "Paul wouldn't be interested anyway," Alva assured her. "He's heterosexual. Remember Rebecca?"

        "Yeah... guess I'm worrying for nothing."

        "Precisely. Paul's very good at being diplomatic; he'll fend off any advances with compassion." He opened the door to his car. "Now why don't you take that mother hen stance home to Matty? It's getting very late."

        "Mother hen stance?"

        "You do it and you know it, Evelyn."

        A minute later, they were both gone, and Mrs. Bongiovi could come out of her hiding place near the dumpster, put down the bag of trash, and have a good laugh, her hands on her knees as she eventually doubled over with giggles. She didn't understand half the things they said - operatives? - but she knew they were two very foolish people. "Friendship can be just as blind as love," she remarked to herself, and looked up at Paul's window.

        Alva and Evie would have felt very foolish indeed if they could have seen into Paul's apartment as the night's events unfolded. Now alone with the sleeping Sam, Dean and Paul had decided to go to bed. Dean knew what he was up for, but he wasn't sure if Paul felt the same way, as Paul made the comment that Dean needed to wake up his brother so the couch bed could be pulled out.

        "Phew, when you said this stuff had aftereffects that would make Sam sleep a lot, you meant it. Hey Sam, nap time's over. Time to wake up and go to bed." Dean shook him lightly.

        Paul giggled. "Give it up."

        "Sam." Dean again shook his shoulder. "We can't pull the couch bed out with you on it."

        Sam groaned to be left alone without opening his eyes.

        "Sammy... hey! Don't make me do the army wake up song."

        Sam swiped at Dean's hand and groaned again, sounding angry.

        Leaning in close to Sam's ear, Dean droned, "Saaaaammyyyyyy..."

        Sam let out a loud whine of protest and blindly shoved out at whoever was disturbing his sleep. He pushed an unsuspecting Dean over on his butt in front of the couch. "Oof! Well... I think we'll let him sleep."

        Paul chuckled without reserve.

        "Oh, you think that's funny, do you?" Dean got to his feet.

        "Yeah, I do."

        "I say we stick Sam's hand in a bowl of warm water," said Dean, smirking.

        "You sure there aren't better things we could do with our time?"

        One eyebrow raised, Dean looked at Paul, finding a naughty grin on his face. Ahhh... he grinned back. "I'm sure there are."

        "Well... with Sam taking up the whole couch, I suppose you'll have to sleep in my bed again." Deep inside, Paul questioned why he was initiating this. He wasn't upset like he was the day before. There was no need for comfort sex tonight. So why did he want Dean again? When had this turned from comfort sex to sex for pleasure? Usually Paul's desire for men went right out the window when his mood improved, but he only wanted the man more than he had before. It was an anomaly in the way he usually operated; Paul would have to give it some thought. Right now, though, all he cared about was the sight of Dean smiling like that, sauntering across the room.

        "I suppose you're right." _Yes!_ Paul was up for some action too. Hey, it wasn't like Sam would be disturbed; he was practically comatose. He wouldn't hear a thing. Dean stretched and gave a fake yawn. "Let's hit the hay, then." He headed to Paul's bedroom.

        Paul followed him with a smirk on his face.

        When he closed the door behind them, it didn't stay shut because the latch was loose; the door reopened about half an inch with a small clicking sound. Neither Paul nor Dean noticed because they were already meeting in the middle for deep kissing and groping hands. Dean started to pull Paul's shirt off, but stopped and grinned.

        "You take it off. I don't want to wrinkle it."

        Paul did, grabbing the back of his collar and pulling the shirt off over his head. "Doesn't matter if this one gets wrinkled, though. It's going straight in the hamper."

        Dean snickered. "That's so cute."

        "What?"

        "The way you take off your shirt. I could watch you do it over and over."

        "Oh, well then..." Paul reached over Dean's head, took hold of the back of his collar, and pulled Dean's shirt off. He whipped the shirt around his hand and spun it a couple of times before tossing it across the room.

        That move was so playful it drove Dean nuts; he grabbed Paul's face and kissed him hard. They continued like that for several more seconds before Paul put a hand on Dean's chest and moved him back, finally shoving him into the chair by the bed. Dean liked these little shows of aggression. So unexpected.

        Paul got down on his knees in front of the chair and ran his hands up and down Dean's thighs, slowly pushing them open. Dean slid down in the chair so he could splay his legs apart, giving Paul room to get in. Paul unbuttoned Dean's jeans and pulled down the zipper, earning him a wide, aroused smile from Dean, then grasped the waistband and yanked down on it. Dean maneuvered himself to make it easier for Paul to get the jeans past his butt and down to his ankles. Paul repeated this action with the boxer briefs, exposing Dean's hardness. He sighed as the air hit his naked skin.

        Eager to get things going, Paul nuzzled into the spot just under Dean's cock where it met his body. He licked there lightly, eventually deepening the area he covered and the amount of pressure he applied with his tongue as he worked his way over and around the base of the other man's manhood. Dean gripped the arms of the big chair, moaning. Paul ran his tongue down to the head of Dean's cock where he concentrated for a minute, sucking and licking the underside.

        "Mmm," Dean moaned again. He began to caress his way through Paul's hair with one hand. "Paul..."

        Paul's head dipped deeper in between Dean's legs as he took him into his mouth. He slowly brought his head back up, making wet sucking noises and leaving Dean slick. Keeping the head of his cock in his mouth, Paul rolled it around on the end of his tongue and breathed heavily on it before closing his lips around it again. Starting to tremble, Dean moaned a little louder, which encouraged Paul to join in. The humming sound that made caused vibrations that sent good chills up Dean's back. "God, _Paul_..." He huffed out a heavy pant.

        Unbeknownst to them, Sam came groggily awake in the living room. Had Dean just been shaking him? Trying to wake him up? Someone had turned out the light... he guessed Dean and Paul had gone to bed in Paul's room since he'd been taking up the whole couch. Well, Sam would just get a little water for his dry mouth and go back to bed.

        When he came back from the kitchen, Sam was just climbing back on the couch with his glass of water when he heard Dean's voice, faint, but unmistakable.

        "Paul..."

        Sam cocked his head with a bewildered raise of his eyebrows. He felt like someone from the 1700's who had just heard an airplane fly overhead. Why did Dean sound horny as hell when he said Paul's name? Correction, when he _moaned_ Paul's name. This had to be investigated.

        Sam noticed that the bedroom door was open a sliver. He quietly pushed the door just a little more open to peek inside. What he saw froze his brain up temporarily, it was just that mindblowing. There was his brother, head turned partially to one side, eyes closed, mouth open in panting breaths, with his pants around his ankles. The person between his legs giving him what must be a totally killer blowjob judging by the reaction he was getting out of Dean was Paul Callan. Sam couldn't be misjudging the situation - that was clearly Paul, that clearly wasn't a Tootsie Pop he had in his mouth, and Dean was clearly enjoying himself like this was something he did all the time, if the way he clutched the chair with one hand and Paul's hair with the other was any indication.

        Blinking, Sam regained the use of his brain and pulled the door almost all the way shut. Holy Christ... was his older brother bisexual? Why had he hidden this all these years? Or was this truly the first time Dean had ever done things like this with a guy? Sam somehow didn't think this was new. Too many confusing things from the past were coming together with this revelation. Too many times when Dean disappeared with a male friend and came back sweaty and wanting a shower, grinning like an idiot and claiming they'd played sports. Then there was that whole thing with Billy from California and his friends. There had definitely been something going on there. Even though Sam was in junior high at the time, not high school like Dean, he'd still heard the crazy rumors. Maybe they weren't so crazy. Maybe Sam had been very blind because he saw his brother as so macho, this just didn't seem possible. The disappearing thing with men still happened to this day, though Dean used new excuses now.

        Holy shit.

        It was possible the Mothman's drugs were making him hallucinate. Sam didn't think they were supposed to, but he had to be sure. He rubbed his eyes, then peeked inside the door again. Nothing had changed. Dean even solidified the revelations about himself by licking his lips, panting once, and moaning, "Oh Paul," visibly trembling in pleasure.

        Sam had to shiver a little himself as the sounds in the room brought back a memory of Jessica's head in his lap. He again closed the door to just an inch and crept back to the couch. Should he say something to Dean about what he'd just seen? Dean obviously had no intention of telling him. Sam would have said it was some sort of spell for sure that made Dean and Paul behave like that, but there was Dean's past to consider... no, it was real. Jesus-jumping-up-and-down... before he could finish that exclamation in his head, the small amount of Mothman drugs still left in his system put Sam back to sleep. He'd have to think more about it in the morning.

        Dean's eyes had been closed for the entirety of Sam's little spying session; he had no idea anyone had even opened the door. His eyes finally opened again when Paul took his mouth off his cock. "Muh?"

        A wicked smirk colored Paul's face. "You were quite the bad boy today, Dean." He climbed up into the chair, straddling Dean on his knees, and rubbed his clothed crotch against the other man's naked one. Dean let out a surprised noise. "You tried to embarrass me in front of my co-workers. Even grabbed my ass in front of Evie." Paul put on a fake, cute little pout, working it for all it was worth. His hands rubbed up and down Dean's chest.

        "You know... one of these days, you're actually going to have to finish a blowjob on me," Dean panted. He placed his hands on Paul's hips, trying to coax him to grind harder. "You look really cute when you're mad."

        "Oh?" Teasing Dean, Paul ground against him very slowly. "I think you like being bad."

        Dean moaned out loud. "You love it and you know it."

        "What I think you _really_ like is torturing me."

        "I'll quit when you stop being so fun to torture," Dean snickered. He licked his lips and breathed out heavily at the feeling of Paul stroking against him.

        "Maybe you need a taste of your own medicine." Paul ground down more aggressively, trying to get the denim of his jeans to bite into Dean's sensitive skin.

        Dean's mouth hung open in an answering pant and moan. "Go ahead. If you giving me a lapdance is torture, I'm all for it."

        "Fine." Paul gave Dean a little more of a taste as he rubbed down and against him with enthusiasm. Getting into it, Dean's hands tightened on Paul's hips, and he ground back, his own hips rotating in the chair.

        "Paul..." he breathed.

        "Ohh-ho no you don't." Paul took Dean's hands from his hips and pinned them over Dean's head, by the wrists, on top of the chair.

        Dean could have easily gotten out of it, but he enjoyed when Paul showed this saucy, wicked side. He knew by instinct that Paul rarely showed such behavior to anyone, which made him feel special that it was shown to him.

        "You do not call the shots during Dean's torture time. Not unless I ask for your input." Paul grinned with a wink. To tease further, he ground on Dean for half a minute while still holding him down. They both were panting and moaning now - Dean could feel Paul growing hard. Then he suddenly slowed down, looking into Dean's eyes and saying, "Tell me something I do that really turns you on."

        Dean looked at the necklace that Paul now wore instead of the rosary; it was a simple silver crucifix. "The fact that you're so corruptible on the outside."

        "That's not something I _do_. Try again," Paul said, smirking.

        Dean realized that this was a bit of a game, and if he played right, he would be rewarded. "It turns me on when you whisper all hot and bothered."

        Paul had to chuckle. He hadn't expected that answer. "When I whisper?"

        "You sound so sexy."

        Paul leaned in close to Dean's ear and whispered, "Like this?"

        Dean shivered involuntarily. "Uhhh," he moaned. "Yeah, like that."

        Somehow, getting them both off this way just wasn't enough for Paul. He was compelled to encourage them to go a lot farther. He whispered again, "If you could do whatever you wanted to me right now, what would you do?" Paul did not stop the hypnotic, delicious grinding.

        Moaning again, Dean replied, "I'd fuck you. While you talked dirty in my ear."

        "Sounds good to me." Paul hopped up, giving Dean his biggest surprise yet. Dean smiled mischievously because he knew he was about to get to do Paul. Inside, his libido yelped _WOOHOO_!

        Dean watched as Paul stripped from the waist down, then got into the stash drawer and retrieved the necessary condom and bottle of lube. He climbed back into the chair, straddling Dean again.

        Dean started to reach for the lube, but stopped. "Is torture time over?"

        "Not completely," Paul said, and winked again. "But you're allowed to help." He handed the bottle to Dean.

        Grinning, Dean asked, "How many times have you...?"

        "Receiving? Um... about... three times," Paul answered.

        "This month?" Dean squirted a little lube on his fingers.

        "Uh... no. In my whole life," Paul sheepishly clarified.

        Dean looked at him, raised an eyebrow, and squirted lots more lube into his hand. Paul laughed in response, suddenly growing a little embarrassed. "You sure you want to do this, Paul?"

        "Yes." He leaned in and, voice thick with arousal, said, "The idea of you screwing me really turns me on."

        There it was again, dirty words coming out of that angelic mouth. Drove Dean insane. It instantly became extremely urgent that Paul get that condom on him. While he did that, Dean reached between Paul's legs, looking for that certain spot, and playfully slapped on a healthy helping of lube. Paul squirmed and moaned at the sudden feeling of that slicked up hand, which was followed by the insertion of first one finger, then two.

        "Mmm, mmmm..." Paul hummed, holding back his nervousness and apprehension as best he could. Still, he sounded a little scared. He hadn't done this in three years.

        "It's okay. I'm making you a Slip n' Slide before I get in here," Dean promised, keeping things light with his little comparison.

        Paul laughed nervously.

        After a minute of fingering, with Paul stroking down his chest and shoulders appreciatively, Dean smirked and said, "Okay, you're about as lubed as you're going to get. Mount me."

        Although that made him laugh lightly, Paul swallowed hard and crawled higher up on the chair with his knees; he poised himself over Dean's latex-sheathed cock. Dean took him by one hip and put the other on his hardness, holding it steady. He guided Paul around until he hit that warm, slick spot and pushed up just a little. Paul made a small gasp.

        "Sit on me real fast, okay? It'll only hurt for a second," Dean said.

        "I know," Paul breathed out, and did as Dean instructed. He relaxed his tense thighs, at the same time, pushing down. The burn was sharp, but it didn't last long, as his muscles instantly allowed the intrusion. Dean slid in on the warming lube. Only a few unpleasant seconds and a hissing cry from Paul, and it started to feel incredibly good, that wet heat inside him, pressing on all the best spots. Dean moaned so loud he was afraid he must've awakened Sam. When Paul, eager, squirmed a little, Dean held his hips tightly to restrict his movement, and shushed him.

        "Hold it a sec." Dean listened carefully. No sound from the living room. "Okay, go."

        "I don't think you should be calling the shots here. You don't know when you want to start," joked Paul, and went to pin Dean to the chair again.

        "You don't want me to..." He spoke in a teasing tone, reaching for Paul's stiff, bobbing cock.

        Paul had always been more of a giver in the sex department; he had just about forgotten about himself. "Oh, yeah. Yeah yeah. I mean, um, I'll allow it." He grinned.

        "I bet you will," Dean chuckled darkly, and wrapped his hand around Paul's manhood, starting to stroke him down with a firm, but still lubed, grip.

        "Uhhhh," Paul moaned out loud. He began to rock up and down, getting that sweet, heated friction going. Doing as Dean had asked, Paul leaned down and whispered in his ear. "You feel good inside me."

        "Ahh... you little minx," panted Dean.

        "...So good when you _fuck_ me." Paul deliberately spoke as dirty as he could muster because he knew it would turn Dean on.

        " _Damn_ , Paul!" How did he know exactly what to say?

        "You made me want you again. Really bad," Paul said, making Dean's ear his confessional.

        Dean commanded, "Say my name."

        "Dean," Paul whispered in his ear. "Oh, Dean!"

        Growling, Dean thrust upward when Paul pushed down. "I'm your protector. Say I can be your protector." A pleading desperation colored his voice when he spoke the second sentence.

        Paul intuitively opened the empathic link and tried to filter out as much of the sexual arousal as he could since he knew it would cause an overload and make him cum prematurely. Behind the feelings in the forefront, he found a deep psychological need to take care of people and keep them safe; he felt it as a sweet, noble warmth in Dean's heart. Paul was touched. He caressed the side of Dean's face with his fingertips. "Of course you can be my protector, Dean. Protection is what you were born for."

        In reaction, Dean made a small noise almost like a sob, closed his eyes for a few seconds, and sucked on his bottom lip. Paul didn't need the emotional feedback he felt through the link to know that Dean needed people to look after to feel at all useful in the world. It made him want to tell Dean he was the best guardian in the universe, smother his face in kisses, and then weep for that wounded little boy inside him. Paul could feel that little boy hiding there even now. Instead, Paul started to rock down harder on Dean's lap. Dean reached up with his free hand to touch Paul's face too, then slipped that hand to the back of Paul's neck and pulled him down for an urgent kiss.

        Between sucking on Paul's lips, Dean panted as he begged, "Make me cum, baby. I need you."

        "Need you too."

        Dean could feel himself nearing climax. He pumped quicker and harder with his hand.

        "Dean... Dean... making me..." Paul moaned.

        "Say it!" Dean growled back.

        "...going to make me _cum_ doing me like that."

        "Guuuuhhaaaahhh!" Dean couldn't take it anymore; he grabbed Paul's hip, making a slapping sound, with his left hand, and pushed him up and down faster.

        Paul didn't really need the encouragement, but he understood the urgent need. He matched Dean's upward bucking hips by meeting every thrust in the middle. That made Dean go in as deep as he could, which Paul especially liked - it felt incredibly good. So many sensitive spots there, ready to give pleasure when triggered. Add on the building orgasm in the front and Paul had two wonderful sources of stimulation. It caused him to arrive at that place of total gratification at least 15 seconds before Dean. Paul tried not to be loud, but he had to moan and murmur under his breath as he came all over Dean's chest and stomach.

        Dean loved it all; he smirked at how dirty and hot it was to be splattered with Paul's cum.

        "Mm Dean! Dean! Fuck me, fuck me," he whispered down low.

        That did it for Dean. So Paul wasn't all about lovemaking and picket fences. He had a dirty, raw side that liked talking all wrong and wanted to be _fucked_. And hardly anyone knew. Dean could have cum just sitting and thinking about Paul Callan, comparing and contrasting the naïve, gentlemanly, repressed side with the prickteasing, hot, luscious side. Dean shoved himself into Paul up to the hilt and held himself there by pulling down on both of Paul's hips as he came.

        "Grrrraaaaugh, Paul! God, Paaaaaul..." Dean rotated his hips a bit before humping quickly in and out while he spent himself. The movement slowed down and eventually stopped. They shook in each other's arms.

        As their breathing just began to calm, Dean put his arms up around the back of the chair and moved his hips a little just to tease. Paul gave a hard tremble. "Mmm. You feel like Heaven every time," Dean told him.

        Snickering and still panting lightly, Paul responded, "And you're a big slice of sin, Dean Winchester. Probably not at all good for me." Another thought struck him, and he leaned down and brushed Dean's lips with his own. "I've seen inside your heart, though. Your life was never sorry," he said quietly, then kissed Dean full on the mouth.

        That kiss was the kind you gave someone you wanted to see again - caring, and touched by who they were as a person. Dean didn't think he could be all of what Paul thought he was, but he still kissed him back with as much enthusiasm, a hand intertwined in his hair. What was this connection between them? Damned if Dean could explain it.

        When the kiss was finally broken, Paul remarked that they couldn't take a shower because the noise might awaken Sam, but he could get them a washcloth and a towel. Dean certainly couldn't go, as he indicated by looking down at his chest and patting the back of the chair. "I'll be right here," he said with a smirk.

        Paul snuck to the bathroom, naked, hoping that Sam wasn't awake, but no, he was still out like a light. After cleaning himself up, he brought a wet washcloth and a towel back to the bedroom. Dean was still stretched out in the chair, wearing that smirk, just looking up at Paul, and made no effort to take the washcloth away. Paul probably could have gotten things going again in reaction to how erotic Dean looked slumped down in that chair, with his attitude written all over him and his chest marked with white spatters. Paul simply began to clean him up, running the washcloth over his stomach and across his nipples.

        "I _hate_ to ruin this picture, but you can't wear this to bed," he said with a smile.

        Shortly after, they were both in their underwear and in bed. Making it seem like an afterthought, Paul moved closer to Dean, his head on the pillow so close to Dean's shoulder that they might as well have been cuddling. "Protect me from the bedbugs," Paul said as a joke.

        That gave Dean a sudden sting, but he kept it to himself, looking at Paul and wrapping an arm around him. Paul happily settled in with his head on Dean's left shoulder. He ran his fingers lightly over Dean's chest until he fell asleep.

        Dean took a good hour to drift off. He couldn't stop thinking about what he'd said. Why had he asked Paul if he could be his protector? How could Dean say such a thing when he knew he wasn't going to be around forever? Stupid, it was such a stupid thing to say. All he could do was hope that when Paul really needed his protection, he would be there.

  
*****

  
        It was near dawn when Dean woke up in the bed alone. He rubbed his eyes and glanced around. Huh, where was...?

         _He sleepwalks._

        Though still groggy, Dean did his best to spring out of bed to look for Paul. He stubbed his toe on the bed frame and hopped to the door cussing and hissing; man, he hated having to get out of bed in such a hurry. Luckily, Dean didn't have to go very far because the man was standing in the living room... hovering over the couch, staring down at the sleeping Sam. How long had Paul been doing that before Dean woke up? That creeped him out to no end. He made his way across the living room.

        "Paul? What's up?" Dean whispered. "Is Sam okay?"

        Paul looked at him with a troubled expression, brow furrowed, but this look was far more hard-edged than anything Dean had seen of Paul so far. "People are so fragile. I don't always understand why they are given these tasks." He sighed. "Sometimes I think it's a bad system."

        Dean instantly knew he wasn't talking to Paul. He was talking to the Forces inside Paul they'd all discussed last night. The voice and facial expression were too different from the person Dean had come to know. Not that he knew Paul all that well, but... "Is Sam fragile when compared to his task?"

        "Very much so. But he stands a chance."

        Dean shuddered all over. "What is Sam's task?"

        "He's already doing it." Paul looked at Dean again, pivoting his head in a mechanical way, like he wasn't used to moving his own body in a natural manner. "You have _no idea_ what's to come, Dean Winchester. Your family is in such peril. All of them."

        Hearing the deep, mechanical voice emphasize the words 'no idea' was the creepiest thing yet. Dean cringed. "Peril from what?"

        "Ask the Mothman when you see him," the Forces replied.

        "So we will be able to catch it?"

        "That is up to you." Paul examined Sam's sleeping form below him. He shook his head slowly, as if in regret. "So fragile." Then Paul turned and headed back to the bedroom.

        Under his breath, Dean said, "Stop reminding me," gave Sam a visual once over, and followed Paul.

        Paul, standing next to the bed, seemed to be waiting to say one more thing to Dean. Dean left the door open this time so he could hear anything that may happen in the living room; the Forces' little walk around the apartment had spooked him, put him on guard. He saw Paul standing there.

        Forming his hands into a ball, Paul, or rather, the Forces, began making a very unsettling sound. "Crrrrrrrrraaaaaaack..." it sounded like, and Paul opened his hands so the little "globe" he'd formed with them broke in two. Then he dropped his arms to his sides and got back into bed without another word.

        Keel was right. After allowing himself another hard shudder, Dean took some paper out of his bag and wrote down all that he could recall of what Paul's Forces had said.

  
*****

  
        Dean and Paul were taking the elevator back up to Paul's apartment with a laundry basket full of Dean and Sam's clothes when Dean finally had the courage to give Paul the piece of paper to read. Several hours had passed, Sam had awakened reluctantly in a crabby mood, and Paul had agreed to take Dean down to the laundry room to wash their clothes. They had so little in that department, washing had to be done quite often. The more Paul read, the more embarrassed and troubled his face became. "God, Dean, I'm sorry."

        "No need to apologize."

        "But it's so _weird_. Standing there, staring down at your brother like some kind of crazy freak..." Paul sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I hate this."

        Dean nodded. He knew Paul meant it. Like Sam, he just wanted to be normal. "It's okay. Make sure Keel gets that. He'll sort it all out."

        Paul smiled. "It's funny how quickly you picked up my habit of calling him Keel."

        "What am I supposed to call him - _Alva_?" Dean chuckled.

        Paul laughed too. No, he couldn't see Dean calling him that.

        They entered the apartment, finding Sam sitting on the couch, putting on his shoes. He seemed far less groggy than he had even two hours ago; food had helped. Paul knew it was going to take another day for Sam to really feel alert.

        "You'll call us in a couple days?" Paul asked Dean.

        "Of course. You sure you want to see the Mothman again?" he asked back.

        Paul had to laugh, though it was nervous laughter. "No, but I'll do it anyway because it's important. Besides, you'll have him tied up, right?"

        "Shit yeah. His mothy ass will be bound up the whole time." Dean noticed Sam coming over. "Help us fold this stuff, will ya?"

        Twenty minutes later and the Winchester brothers were ready to go, back to Mountaineer to see if the Mothman's trail had gone cold. All three men were now standing in the hallway outside Paul's apartment. Dean held his bag out to Sam. "Would you take mine down to the car too? I want to say bye to Paul."

        Sam couldn't help it; he was hurt that his brother hadn't told him this secret, something he'd apparently been hiding for years. He thought he knew what "say bye to Paul" meant, and it made him snappy. "I'm sure you do," Sam said in a tone that revealed that he knew exactly what was going on, and tossed the bag over his shoulder carelessly.

        "What's wrong with you? You still tired?" Dean questioned.

        "Nothing." Sam headed toward the stairs.

        "You can sleep in the car," called Dean.

        Saying nothing more, Sam disappeared down the flight of stairs, foregoing the elevator completely.

        Paul just grinned, now that they were alone. "Well..."

        But Dean was now staring at the front door of Paul's apartment, not feeling playful. "I'm concerned for you. I don't like leaving you alone without any protection from violent ghosts like Mrs. Keel. And the sleepwalking..."

        Paul didn't like being treated as if he was anymore vulnerable than anyone else. "And I'm worried about you getting hurt with all that demon hunting that _you_ do, but you don't see me trying to change things I can't control," he said with a smirk.

        Dean rolled his eyes. "Fine. Fine... but will you please consider the protective circles a little more carefully?"

        "I'll _consider_ anything you want, Dean."

        "You just won't _accept_ any of my suggestions." Dean shook his head. "Why am I letting you frustrate me like this?"

        "'Cause you think I'm adorable." Paul played with the collar of Dean's jacket, pretending he was fixing it.

        This guy sure liked to tease and flirt. Sometimes Dean liked it, and other times, it made Dean want to pound him. "Nah, that can't be it, 'cause adorable people remind me of Snuggle, the fabric softener bear, and I kill those little bitches. You're more a sexy but stubborn little pain in my ass."

        "I'll take it. Better than being your enemy any day," grinned Paul.

        "Damn straight." Dean sighed; he both hated and loved this part. Goodbyes were hard, but getting back on the open road rocked. "I gotta go now. Sam and I will come back in a few days and let you know what we find out." He also knew that he might not be able to keep that promise. If Dad called with more coordinates for him and Sam to follow, they might be off to Godknowswhere, USA instead of Mountaineer. Who knew what tomorrow would hold. Still, Dean found himself saying, "Take care until I see you again." He yanked Paul to him by the front of his shirt and gave him a passionate goodbye kiss. They both breathed and just looked at each other for a moment after it was over, aware that fate might never truly bring them together again. "See ya, Metrosexual."

        "See ya, Dean," Paul replied quietly.

        A minute later, Dean slid in behind the wheel of the Impala. He noticed Sam had their father's journal open in his lap, reading something. "Catching up on the Mothman?"

        "Yeah."

        Seeing the journal made Dean suddenly remember. "Damn. Paul never finished telling me about 'God is Nowhere'."

        "What?" Sam asked, looking up.

        "'God is Nowhere.' It's a phrase a bunch of people saw written in blood, like the blood formed itself into those words on its own. Pretty creepy shit, huh?" Dean commented.

        "Actually, yeah, sounds pretty creepy. Well, we'll be back in a couple days. You can ask him then." Sam flipped through the journal to find the entry on 'God is Nowhere;' he knew he'd seen that phrase in here. It came on him suddenly. Next thing Sam knew, he was having a vision of himself turning the journal to the back, yanking off the pocket, ripping up one corner of the endpapers, and pulling out a hidden, folded piece of paper. The vision didn't cause him pain this time, probably because it wasn't as intense and violent as the others. But it was just as important.

        When the vision was over, Sam turned to the back of the journal and started to do exactly what his vision had detailed.

        "Hey, hey, what are you doing?!" Dean yelled, trying to snatch the journal away.

        "Wait, Dean! There's something here!" Sam had torn up enough of the lining to expose that there was indeed a folded piece of yellow legal paper sealed inside. It was obvious that someone, most likely their father, had pulled up the pocket and endpaper, put the folded sheet in, and glued it back down.

        "Sam, what... oh. Good find, psychic boy. You had a vision about it, didn't you?"

        Sam nodded and showed him the paper. On one of the folded sides, the words 'God is Nowhere' were written in their father's handwriting.

        "Why did Dad hide it?" wondered Dean.

        "We're about to find out." Sam unfolded the paper most of the way and started to read a passage that caught his eye. "...'I was distracted, so I didn't notice the boy walking the top of the jungle gym until it was too late. He called to me that he was practicing his balance, and then I heard him yelp as he lost it. A meaty thud followed.'"

        Dean chuckled. "Faceplant. Who is that about anyway?"

        "I haven't gotten that far yet. Listen. 'He started to scream and cry. By the time I reached him, his busted lip had bled quite a bit, along with the spot where he'd knocked out two baby teeth. The blood pooled on the pavement where he'd fallen. I picked him up to comfort him and try to stop the bleeding. The woman I'd met that day at the park ran over with my... other son... in her arms, and she scared us all when she pointed and shrieked at the pool of blood. The blood had formed words.'"

        Sam looked uneasily at his brother; he didn't like where this was going. "'It formed the words _God is Nowhere_.'"

        All Dean could think about was the things Paul had said while he was on the phone with Keel. Something about this guy, Chad Goodwell, trying to kill all of the 'God is Nowhere' people. "My God... did Dad say something about his 'other son'? Who is this letter about?!"

        Sam unfolded the entire sheet of paper to read the top paragraph. "'I must hide this paper after I have written what happened that day in 1984. My research on the 'God is Nowhere' phenomena is sketchy, but more than one reputable psychic has told me that anyone whose blood spells out these words is in danger - a danger to themselves, and in danger from agents of evil. That is why I must chronicle what happened and then hide this paper, to protect the life of..." Sam swallowed down his dread. "...the life of my son.'"

        Eyes widening with that confirmation of his suspicions, Dean almost snatched the paper away so he could just read it already. Sam was taking too long. "Sammy, who? Which one of us is the 'God is Nowhere' person?!"

        Sam looked at him with worried eyes. "'My son does not remember this incident because he was too young. He couldn't even read yet. When this thing happened, I had my baby Sammy lying on a park bench so I could change his diaper. My older son Dean climbed up on the jungle gym...' It's you, Dean. The letter is about you."

  
 **More Author's Notes:** Jack Bull Chiles, Jake Roedell, and Black John are all characters from the book _Woe to Live On_ AKA _Ride with the Devil_ by Daniel Woodrell. Skeet Ulrich played Jack Bull Chiles in the film version of this book. He also played Paul Callan. Another little joke of mine. ;)

The lyrics _"Sleep all day, out all night. I know where you're going. I don't think that's actin' right, you don't think it's showing..."_ come from the song "Funk #49" by The James Gang, (c) 1973 MCA Records.

Thanks to Kaija for allowing me to use her idea that Dean be a 'God is Nowhere' person.

I also want to note here that Kaija and I chat about the Dean/Paul relationship quite a bit, to the point that sometimes there are similarities in how we portray it (even in the sex scenes). Neither of us does this on purpose. But her story "Working Vacation," which she wrote for me, was definitely a big inspiration on this first Dean/Paul story of mine. I wasn't even sure I should go ahead with the fic relationship that was brewing in my head (and loins) until she wrote that story for me.

Thanks to Kaye for saying during our chat, "And then the Mothman picks Sam up and flies away with him?" Yeah, that's exactly how it happened! The idea simplified the whole scene greatly.

Again, thanks to Deejay for the joke of calling Alva's car the 'hooptie mobile.' This story also references an idea she is allowing me to use that I cannot detail because it's a big spoiler for my fanfic series (read "Persistence of Memory" if you haven't already). Just wanted to note that it is referenced heavily here.

I just made up the term "projective clairvoyance." Clairvoyance exists, but has anyone ever projected it to another person? I dunno.

The way Paul removes his shirt in this is actually a habit of Skeet Ulrich's that I have noticed in more than one of the movies he's been in. I've never seen anyone remove a shirt that way. It's cute. Me, obsessively notice odd Skeet habits? Naaah. I also want to note that I have a total fetish for Skeet's sexy hands and Jensen's gorgeous eyes. Funny that those are the features Paul and Dean like best about each other, heheh. Oh, and I also think Skeet sounds really sexy when he whispers, of all things - that's reflected in the story, too.

I'm going to let you guys have fun Googling all the rock star names to see who they are. ;)

"Paul's apartment, our home sweet home," is a reference to the Mtv short film "Joe's Apartment" and the subsequent movie of the same name. "Joe's Apartment" is about a guy who lives in harmony with the roaches that frequent his home (ew). The roaches sang a theme song that went, "Joe's apartment, our home sweet home..."

References to _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ : Dean mentions the Hellmouth in Sunnydale and Alva mentions Slayers.

If there is anyone out there who is a fan of the Violent Femmes, Dead Milkmen, Sonic Youth, and similar bands, please contact me. I need help with Sam's musical tastes. I gave him these bands as favorites because they seemed to fit his personality, or rather, his personality fits many people whom I've known who just devoured music like that. I am not extremely familiar with what would be considered a good Violent Femmes song, etc. What would be on Sam's playlist of favorites? Dead Milkmen's "Bitchen Camaro" and "Punk Rock Girl," plus Sonic Youth's "Bull in the Heather" is about as far as I get with a playlist. R.E.M. I know. Little help?

  
 **Fate is an Engineer** is (c) 2006 Demented Stuff/The Pleasure of the People  
 **Miracles** is (c) 2003 Spyglass Entertainment and Touchstone Television  
 **Supernatural** is (c) 2005+ Kripke Enterprises, Wonderland,  & Warner Brothers/The CW Television.  



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